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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
Fairy
Traced
Wings
Feather
Angel
Whence
Lives
Feathers
Good
Dropped
Men
Shaped
Life
Wing
Pens
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
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
William Wordsworth
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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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
William Wordsworth
Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
William Wordsworth
Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
William Wordsworth
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
William Wordsworth
How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
William Wordsworth
What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
William Wordsworth
...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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But He is risen, a later star of dawn.
William Wordsworth
And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
William Wordsworth
my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
William Wordsworth
The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
William Wordsworth
The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
William Wordsworth
