Quote

Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!

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
Fields
Render
Steps
Echoes
Eye
Warning
Trod
Show
Spot
Pangs
Shows
Hath
Thoughtless
Earth
Spots
Grove
Back
Field
Witnessed
Men
Image
Echo

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My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
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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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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accursed An emblem yields to friends and enemies How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth, shall spread, throughout the world dispersed.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
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When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
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Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
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Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
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A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.
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The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
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We live by admiration, hope and love.
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No motion has she now, no force she neither hears nor sees rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
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