Quote

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

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
Nature
Forms
Meddling
Form
Shapes
Receives
Come
Close
Barren
Enough
Watches
Forth
Heart
Sweet
Leaves
Things
Bring
Intellect
Beauteous
Science
Murder
Dissect
Art
Brings
Lore

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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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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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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.
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To be young was very heaven!
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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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 harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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Dreams, books, are each a world and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
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The eye— it cannot choose but see we cannot bid the ear be still our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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