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The child is the father 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
Child
Father
Children
Men

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
William Wordsworth
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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
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The stars of midnight shall be dear To her and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
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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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One impulse from a vernal wood
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
William Wordsworth
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
William Wordsworth