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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

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
Dream
Hunt
Hunts
Forgotten
Half

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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There is a luxury in self-dispraise And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
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Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
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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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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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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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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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Since thy return, through days and weeks Of hope that grew by stealth, How many wan and faded cheeks Have kindled into health! The Old, by thee revived, have said, 'Another year is ours' And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, Have smiled upon thy flowers.
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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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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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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.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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Small service is true service, while it lasts.
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