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And I am happy when I sing.

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
Sing
Happy

More quotes by William Wordsworth

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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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In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.
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In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.
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Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
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But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover.
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Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
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Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.
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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!
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
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O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
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Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
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The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
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Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
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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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Spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
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Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
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