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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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
Bird
Shall
Call
Blithe
Voice
Cuckoo
Cuckoos
Wandering
Wander
Thee
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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The child is father of the man.
William Wordsworth
Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
William Wordsworth
From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
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'Tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes!
William Wordsworth
For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
William Wordsworth
O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
William Wordsworth
The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
William Wordsworth
Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
William Wordsworth
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
William Wordsworth
Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
William Wordsworth
The Eagle, he was lord above
William Wordsworth
Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart, the fountain of sweet tears And love and thought and joy.
William Wordsworth
And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
William Wordsworth
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
William Wordsworth
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will Dear God! the very houses seem asleep And all that mighty heart is lying still!
William Wordsworth
A brotherhood of venerable trees.
William Wordsworth
Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
William Wordsworth
