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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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
Gives
Abode
Dark
Dwells
Future
Prudence
Eye
Breeze
Giving
Flowers
Abodes
Think
Gods
Scans
Thinking
Flower
Softest
Birth
Fairest
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art Close up these barren leaves Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
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How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
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In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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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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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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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
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One impulse from a vernal wood
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Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing The rain is over and gone.
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
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Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
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Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.
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Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
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Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised
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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
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Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
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