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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
William Wordsworth
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William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
Lyricist
Poet
Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
Pleasure
Hurrying
Business
Benign
Better
Selves
Self
Gracious
Long
Pleasures
World
Solitude
Tired
Droop
Sick
Parted
More quotes by William Wordsworth
A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
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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.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
William Wordsworth
One impulse from a vernal wood
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed.
William Wordsworth
