Share
×
Inspirational Quotes
Authors
Professions
Topics
Tags
Quote
A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
William Wordsworth
Share
Change background
T
T
T
Change font
Original
TAGS & TOPICS
William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
Lyricist
Poet
Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
Men
Ballads
Hood
Singer
Singers
Famous
English
Ballad
Fame
Robins
Joy
Robin
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
William Wordsworth
To be young was very heaven!
William Wordsworth
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
William Wordsworth
Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
William Wordsworth
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
William Wordsworth
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
William Wordsworth
O dearer far than light and life are dear.
William Wordsworth
Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness
William Wordsworth
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
William Wordsworth
Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
William Wordsworth
Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
William Wordsworth
Love betters what is best
William Wordsworth
A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
William Wordsworth
A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
William Wordsworth
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.
William Wordsworth
The child is the father of man.
William Wordsworth
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
William Wordsworth
Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
William Wordsworth
We murder to dissect.
William Wordsworth
Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
William Wordsworth