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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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
Lying
Meanest
Often
Blows
Give
Blow
Giving
Garden
Flower
Tears
Thoughts
Deep
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong--be worthy of the grace of God.
William Wordsworth
Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
William Wordsworth
The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
William Wordsworth
'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
William Wordsworth
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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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
William Wordsworth
By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
William Wordsworth
Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
William Wordsworth
