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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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
Course
Trees
Force
Sees
Death
Stones
Around
Neither
Earth
Rocks
Dying
Rolled
Tree
Hears
Courses
Motion
More quotes by William Wordsworth
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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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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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
William Wordsworth
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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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
A tale in everything.
William Wordsworth
