William Wordsworth

(1770-1850 / Cumberland / England)

William Wordsworth Quotes

  • ''Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
    The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
    Hath had elsewhere its setting,
    And cometh from afar:''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (l. 58-61). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
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  • ''One impulse from a vernal wood
    May teach you more of man,
    Of moral evil and of good,
    Than all the sages can.''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. The Tables Turned, st. 6, Lyrical Ballads (1798).
  • ''Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (l. 77). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''No fountain from its rocky cave
    E'er tripped with foot so free;
    She seemed as happy as a wave
    That dances on the sea.''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. The Two April Mornings (l. 49-52). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''Though nothing can bring back the hour
    Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
    We will grieve not, rather find
    Strength in what remains behind;''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (l. 177-180). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''The world is too much with us; late and soon,
    Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. "The World is Too Much With Us," Sonnet 33, Miscellaneous Sonnets (1807). Opening lines.
  • ''Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
    Thy Soul's immensity;
    Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
    Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
    That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
    Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (l. 108-113). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. "The World Is Too Much With Us," Miscellaneous Sonnets (1827).
  • ''The Rainbow comes and goes,
    And lovely is the Rose,''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (l. 10-11). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''I'd rather be
    A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
    So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
    Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
    Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
    Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. The World Is Too Much with Us (l. 10-14). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.

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Best Poem of William Wordsworth

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud (Daffodils)

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I ...

Read the full of I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud (Daffodils)

The Trosachs

THERE 's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
   But were an apt confessional for one
   Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
   That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
   Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,

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