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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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
Justice
Sonnet
Heart
Mindless
Scorn
Critic
Shakespeare
Honour
Unlocked
Critics
Honours
Keys
Frowned
More quotes by William Wordsworth
He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
William Wordsworth
I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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The child shall become father to the man.
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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
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Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
William Wordsworth
Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
William Wordsworth
The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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All that we behold is full of blessings.
William Wordsworth
A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
William Wordsworth
Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
William Wordsworth
For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
William Wordsworth
The unconquerable pang of despised love.
William Wordsworth
Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
William Wordsworth
