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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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
Natural
Wish
Father
Children
Piety
Men
Bound
Bounds
Days
Child
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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Nature's old felicities.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
William Wordsworth
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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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
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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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The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
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