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Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.
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
Daily
Birth
Fuming
Shows
Vanities
Nature
Meek
Earth
Oblivion
Take
Comment
Vanity
Evening
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
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But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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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.
William Wordsworth
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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The sunshine is a glorious birth But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Death is the quiet haven of us all.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.
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