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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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
Glory
Trailing
Birth
Nakedness
Baby
Eulogy
Sleep
Forgetfulness
Forget
Forgetting
Inspirational
Utter
Come
Clouds
Entire
More quotes by William Wordsworth
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
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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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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Rest and be thankful.
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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.
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The child is the father of man.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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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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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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