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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.
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
Men
Poet
Consonant
Short
Consonants
Pure
Rectify
Ought
Render
Feelings
Sane
Nature
Permanent
Certain
Degree
Great
Degrees
More quotes by William Wordsworth
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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It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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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.
William Wordsworth
Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
William Wordsworth
And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
William Wordsworth
Stop thinking for once in your life!
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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
William Wordsworth
We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
William Wordsworth
Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
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When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
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And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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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.
William Wordsworth
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.
William Wordsworth
In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
William Wordsworth
