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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
William Wordsworth
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William Wordsworth
Age: 80 †
Born: 1770
Born: April 7
Died: 1850
Died: April 23
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Cockermouth
Cumbria
Wordsworth
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Utopia
More quotes by William Wordsworth
There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
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And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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The moving accident is not my trade To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
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And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
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The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
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Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
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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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She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
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The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
William Wordsworth
In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation.
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The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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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!
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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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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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
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