Best 429 quotes of William Wordsworth on MyQuotes

Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.

Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

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.

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.

Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.

Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind; And worse, against ourselves.

But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.

But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.

But He is risen, a later star of dawn.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

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

But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.

But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant

By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!

Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.

Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.

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

Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.

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.

Death is the quiet haven of us all.

Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.

Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring; That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music; there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.

Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?

Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.

Faith is a passionate intuition.

Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.

Far from the world I walk, and from all care.

Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

For by superior energies; more strict affiance in each other; faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.

For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude

For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.

Free as a bird to settle where I will.

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.