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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
Fears
Unwary
Till
Deluding
Shot
Bolt
Harm
Airy
Shots
Bolts
Voice
Whispering
Fear
Fatal
Voices
More quotes by William Wordsworth
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
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What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
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Great men have been among us hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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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.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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