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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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
Pens
Fairy
Traced
Wings
Feather
Angel
Whence
Lives
Feathers
Good
Dropped
Men
Shaped
Life
Wing
More quotes by 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
Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
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Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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Oh, be wise, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
William Wordsworth
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
William Wordsworth
Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
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Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
William Wordsworth
