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From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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
Guilty
Deeds
Thoughts
Ghostly
Thousand
Haunting
Body
Proceed
Deed
Fears
Forgiveness
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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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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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
William Wordsworth
I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
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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.
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
William Wordsworth
Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
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