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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!
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
Voice
Whispering
Fear
Fatal
Voices
Fears
Unwary
Till
Deluding
Shot
Bolt
Harm
Airy
Shots
Bolts
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
William Wordsworth
Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
William Wordsworth
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
William Wordsworth
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.
William Wordsworth
Let Nature be your teacher
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For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
William Wordsworth
Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Nature's old felicities.
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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
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We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
William Wordsworth
