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Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
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
Degrees
Type
Language
Dappled
Play
Similes
Things
Turf
Simile
Loose
Ease
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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Action is transitory, a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that, 'Tis done--And in the after-vacancy, We wonder at ourselves, like men betrayed.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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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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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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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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Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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For mightier far Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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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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