99+ William Wordsworth Quotes on On writing, Finale of middlemarch and The Excursion 1814 - Quotes.pub

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Great God! I’d rather be a Pagan...

Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There ’s not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.

The Man of Science seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and love it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion.

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

For 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... To this tendency of life and manners the literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country have conformed themselves.

On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.

That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

Stop thinking for once in your life!

Earth helped him with the cry of blood.

Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.

Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.

While all the future, for thy purer soul, With “sober certainties” of love is blest.

I’m not talking about a “show me other walls of this thing” button, I mean a “stumble” button for wallbase.

A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope’s perpetual breath.

Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?

And I am happy when I sing.

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.

Book Quotes

The Eagle, he was lord above.

These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.

Book Quotes

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.

And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

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!

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o’er which a thousand shadows go!

One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.

I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.

That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner’s crime, The most resplendent hair.

Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.

One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth’s heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.

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.

The very flowers are sacred to the poor.

He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.

And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight; If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight; If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare; Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest – Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast.

Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.

Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?

What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.

The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.

Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.

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