Quote

The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

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
Cannot
Stills
Still
Body
Feel
Bodies
Feels
Ears
Choose
Eye

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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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There is a comfort in the strength of love 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
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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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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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