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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

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
Wisdom
Books
Nature
Woodland
Music
Strife
Book
Dull
Come
Endless
Life
Sweet
Hear

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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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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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
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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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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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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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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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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
William Wordsworth
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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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. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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