William Wordsworth image
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Born in April 7, 1770 / Died in April 23, 1850 / United Kingdom / English

Quotes by William Wordsworth

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth:...
What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
Is there not An art, a music, and a stream of words That shalt be life, the acknowledged voice of life?
'How is it that you live, and what is it you do?'
Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power...
The power, which all Acknowledge when thus moved, which Nature thus...
The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,...
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong.
Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;...
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. The soul that rises with us, our life's star, hath had elsewhere its setting, and comet from afar: not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home.
feelings too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,...
The world is too much with us late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powersLittle we see in Nature that is oursWe have given our hearts away, a sordid boon
The good old rule Sufficeth them, the simple plan, That they should take, who have the power, And they should keep who can.
Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower...
Often have I sighed to measureBy myself a lonely pleasure,Sighed to think, I read a bookOnly read, perhaps, by me.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!
The little unremembered acts of kindness and love are the best parts of a person's life.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.
My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky.
That best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
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
Wisdom and spirit of the Universe Thou soul is the eternity of thought That giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion Not in vain By day or star-light thus from by first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul, Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, But with high objects, with enduring things, With life and nature, purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying, by such discipline Both pain and fear, until we recognize A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.