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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
Men
Child
Father
Children

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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Free as a bird to settle where I will.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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A deep distress has humanised my soul.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
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Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
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Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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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.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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