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Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.

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
Reproach
Hear
Self
Feel
Feels
Men

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.
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Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him it was blessedness and love!
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There is creation in the eye.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
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Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
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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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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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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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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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Give all thou canst high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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