William Wordsworth Quotes, Appreciation Quotes, Flower Quotes

The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.

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The child is father of the man.

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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.

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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.

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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.

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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.

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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.

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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only there;With hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.

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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.

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It may be safely affirmed that there neither is, nor can be, any essential difference between the language of prose and metrical composition.... They both speak by and to the same organs; the bodies in which both of them are clothed may be said to be of the same substance, their affections are kindred, and almost identical, not necessarily differing even in degree; Poetry sheds no tears "such as Angels weep," but natural and human tears; she can boast of no celestial ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from those of prose; the same human blood circulates through the veins of them both.

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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.

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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.

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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.

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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.

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