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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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
Moral
Sage
Evil
Wood
Nature
Forests
May
Impulse
Good
Educational
Men
Woods
Tree
Vernal
Teach
Sages
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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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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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
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And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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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.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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The child is the father of man.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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