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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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
Tears
Growth
Common
Mother
Earth
Suffices
Humblest
Mirth
Motherhood
More quotes by William Wordsworth
My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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For nature then to me was all in all.
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But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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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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The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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And mighty poets in their misery dead.
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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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