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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

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
Firsts
First
Heart
Men
Immortal
Poetry
Knowledge
Lasts
Last

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
William Wordsworth
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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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I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
William Wordsworth
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Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
William Wordsworth
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
William Wordsworth
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
William Wordsworth
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We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
William Wordsworth
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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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.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
William Wordsworth
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Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
William Wordsworth
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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!
William Wordsworth
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
William Wordsworth
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
William Wordsworth
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
William Wordsworth