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We Poets in our youth begin in gladness But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
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
Poets
Madness
Begin
Poet
Youth
Ends
Despondency
Come
Thereof
Gladness
More quotes by William Wordsworth
The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
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Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room And hermits are contented with their cells.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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The child is the father of man.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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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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Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
William Wordsworth
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
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Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness.
William Wordsworth
