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Chains tie us down by land and sea And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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
Mines
Sea
Mine
Comfort
Wishes
Land
Ties
Wish
Chains
Left
Vain
May
Thee
More quotes by William Wordsworth
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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Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
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Plain living and high thinking are no more.
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And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.
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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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Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
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Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer!
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To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
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May books and nature be their early joy!
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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
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A brotherhood of venerable trees.
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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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And I am happy when I sing.
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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all
William Wordsworth
Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
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