Quote

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?

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
Looks
Friendship
Friend
Grow
Trouble
Toil
Grows
Double
Books
Quit
Clear
Quitting
Book
Surely

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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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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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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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The child is father of the man.
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
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Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises.
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Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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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.
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