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Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
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
Immortal
Souls
Brought
Sea
Ocean
Sight
Though
Inland
Soul
Hither
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Let Nature be your teacher
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Yet tears to human suffering are due And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
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If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.
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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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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
William Wordsworth
But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
William Wordsworth
I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
William Wordsworth
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
William Wordsworth
Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only thereWith hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
William Wordsworth
Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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