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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.
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
Thing
Fairs
Time
Fair
Looked
Scene
Heard
Moving
Gazed
Felt
Steadfast
Away
Prospect
More quotes by William Wordsworth
A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
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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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The child is father of the man.
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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
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Me this uncharted freedom tires I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.
William Wordsworth
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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Miss not the occasion by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
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To be young was very heaven!
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
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Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
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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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