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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.
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
Call
Blank
Sense
Thoughtful
Thinking
Unknown
Solitude
Worked
Undetermined
Darkness
Desertion
Thoughts
Modes
Brain
Hung
More quotes by William Wordsworth
Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
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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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We murder to dissect.
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Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
William Wordsworth
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
William Wordsworth
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?
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Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
William Wordsworth
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
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
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Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
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Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
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A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
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That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
William Wordsworth
Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet
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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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Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
William Wordsworth
A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
William Wordsworth
And what if thou, sweet May, hast known Mishap by worm and blight If expectations newly blown Have perished in thy sight If loves and joys, while up they sprung, Were caught as in a snare Such is the lot of all the young, However bright and fair.
William Wordsworth
