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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.

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
Book
Lovers
Type
Influence
Books
Past
Best

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
William Wordsworth
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One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
William Wordsworth
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one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
William Wordsworth
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
William Wordsworth
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
William Wordsworth
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True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
William Wordsworth
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
William Wordsworth
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
William Wordsworth
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Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
William Wordsworth
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
William Wordsworth
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
William Wordsworth
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Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.
William Wordsworth
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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
William Wordsworth
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Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
William Wordsworth
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
William Wordsworth
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
William Wordsworth
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
William Wordsworth
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A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
William Wordsworth
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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
William Wordsworth
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
William Wordsworth