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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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
Expense
Idols
Adore
Expenses
Plain
High
Rapine
Living
Idolatry
Thinking
Avarice
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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Nature's old felicities.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
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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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Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
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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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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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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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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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Love betters what is best
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
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