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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
Seats
Birds
Flowers
Fruit
Sequestered
Bird
Nook
Flower
Greet
Sweet
Orchard
Upon
Seat
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.
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Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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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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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
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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
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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began So is it now I am a man.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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