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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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
Doth
Joy
Nature
Remember
Live
Something
Embers
Fugitive
Remembers
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
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A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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Yon foaming flood seems motionless as iceIts dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
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Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
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Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
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The unconquerable pang of despised love.
William Wordsworth
With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
William Wordsworth
Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
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Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
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Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
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My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
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What is good for a bootless bene? With these dark words begins my tale And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?
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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
William Wordsworth
One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
William Wordsworth
Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
William Wordsworth
