Quote

All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.

William Wordsworth

Change background

T
T
T

Change font

TAGS & TOPICS

William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
Lyricist
Poet
Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
Long
Honorable
Something
Gratitude
Men
Objects
Please
Wealth
Money
Habitual
Feel
Bigotry
Feels
Continued

More quotes by William Wordsworth

Image
Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
William Wordsworth
Image
Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
William Wordsworth
Image
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
William Wordsworth
Image
The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
William Wordsworth
Image
Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
William Wordsworth
Image
To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
William Wordsworth
Image
From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
William Wordsworth
Image
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
William Wordsworth
Image
Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
William Wordsworth
Image
There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
William Wordsworth
Image
Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
William Wordsworth
Image
Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
William Wordsworth
Image
A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
William Wordsworth
Image
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
William Wordsworth
Image
And mighty poets in their misery dead.
William Wordsworth
Image
That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
William Wordsworth
Image
Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
William Wordsworth
Image
The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
William Wordsworth
Image
Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
William Wordsworth
Image
Nature's old felicities.
William Wordsworth