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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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
Child
Simple
Death
Limb
Feels
Lightly
Children
Limbs
Every
Breath
Life
Breaths
Draws
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
William Wordsworth
Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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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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The primal duties shine aloft, like stars The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
William Wordsworth
There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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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.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
William Wordsworth
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
William Wordsworth
The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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