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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

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
Sighs
Sigh
Idle
Worse
Tears
Compassion
Ends

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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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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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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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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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
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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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A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.
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The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
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Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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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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The child shall become father to the man.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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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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