Quote

By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!

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
Image
Grassy
Saws
Twofold
Chance
Rams
Happy
Crystal
White
Crystals
Another
Flood
Bank
Snow

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Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science
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I look for ghosts but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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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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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
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Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
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