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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
Lives
Feathers
Good
Dropped
Men
Shaped
Life
Wing
Pens
Fairy
Traced
Wings
Feather
Angel
Whence
More quotes by William Wordsworth
How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through.
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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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.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
William Wordsworth
And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
William Wordsworth
Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
William Wordsworth
Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
William Wordsworth
Let Nature be your teacher
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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The child is father of the man.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
William Wordsworth
The child is the father of man.
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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
William Wordsworth
With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
William Wordsworth
The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
William Wordsworth
Rest and be thankful.
William Wordsworth
