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Meek Walton's heavenly memory.

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
Walton
Meek
Heavenly
Memory
Memories

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Two voices are there one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
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Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
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Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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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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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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The very flowers are sacred to the poor.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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Let Nature be your teacher
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
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