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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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
Woods
Wind
Music
Autumnal
Faded
Amongst
Winds
Autumn
Wild
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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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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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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