Quote

Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.

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
Something
Faith
Transcendent
Love
Hope
Serve
Hands
Hour
Power
Silent
Live
Toward
Enough
Greater
Dower
Feel
Hours
Tomb
Feels
Future
Tombs

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.
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Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
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Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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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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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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And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
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Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
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He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.
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The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
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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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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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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
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Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
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I've watched you now a full half-hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
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Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
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