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Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
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
Brides
Hopes
Became
Society
Hope
Children
Glittering
Airy
Bride
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.
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Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
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A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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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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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry and these we adore Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
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The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away than what it leaves behind.
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Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
William Wordsworth
