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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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
Together
Dust
Music
Harmony
Discordant
Like
Elements
Reconciles
Grows
Workmanship
Dark
Inscrutable
Society
Reconcile
Makes
Cling
Spirit
Immortal
More quotes by William Wordsworth
'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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The vision and the faculty divine Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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I'm not talking about a show me other walls of this thing button, I mean a stumble button for wallbase.
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Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
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Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
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The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
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Behold the Child among his new-born blisses A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art.
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Primroses, the Spring may love them Summer knows but little of them.
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Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
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What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
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We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
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