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
Preserved
Ancestral
Book
Lies
Chamber
Orient
Need
Whose
Store
Unlock
Needs
Deep
Precious
Chambers
Books
Stores
Accumulated
Within
Gems
Age
Treasure
Hides
Hoards
Lying
Silent
Tombs
Sultan
Truth
Gold

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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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Oh, be wise, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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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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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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We murder to dissect.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.
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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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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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