Quote

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

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
Flower
Greet
Sweet
Orchard
Upon
Seat
Seats
Birds
Flowers
Fruit
Sequestered
Bird
Nook

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Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.
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There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
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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.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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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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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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