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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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
Sympathy
Condolences
Grief
Splendour
Remains
Bereavement
Behinds
Grieve
Behind
Radiance
Strength
Splendor
Rather
Consolation
Find
Grieving
More quotes by William Wordsworth
One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
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By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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A tale in everything.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
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Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
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Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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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.
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