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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind 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
Sense
Ocean
Sublime
Felt
Sun
Settings
Light
Blue
Round
Mind
Air
Rounds
Something
Whose
Setting
Disturbs
Men
Thoughts
Deeply
Suns
Life
Joy
Presence
Elevated
Living
Sky
Dwelling

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
William Wordsworth
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A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
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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.
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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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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Faith is a passionate intuition.
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A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.
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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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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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