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The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
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
Cups
Fairy
Flowers
Sight
Fairies
Flower
Sights
Mystery
Behold
Mysteries
Gorgeous
More quotes by William Wordsworth
I listened, motionless and still And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
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Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
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By all means sometimes be alone salute thyself see what thy soul doth wear dare to look in thy chest and tumble up and down what thou findest there.
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And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
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The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
William Wordsworth
Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
William Wordsworth
And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
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In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
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Love betters what is best
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Stop thinking for once in your life!
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And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
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Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
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Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
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At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
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Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
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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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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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