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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.

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
Doom
Unto
Prison
Truth

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To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
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The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
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The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
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Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
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The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
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Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
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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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We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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Oh, be wise, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
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Dreams, books, are each a world.
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Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
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Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
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