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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.

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
Reverie
Pleasant
Mood
Sweet
Thoughts
Bring
Mind

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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Truth takes no account of centuries.
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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the Mind of Man-- My haunt, and the main region of my song.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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Oh, be wise, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
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Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
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Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
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The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
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How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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