Quote

Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at 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
Book
Lies
Preserved
Ancestral
Need
Whose
Chamber
Orient
Needs
Deep
Store
Unlock
Books
Precious
Chambers
Within
Stores
Accumulated
Age
Treasure
Gems
Lying
Silent
Hides
Hoards
Truth
Gold
Tombs
Sultan

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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The wealthiest man among us is the best
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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