William Wordsworth

(1770-1850 / Cumberland / England)

William Wordsworth Quotes

  • ''And not in utter nakedness,
    But trailing clouds of glory do we come
    From God, who is our home:
    Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
    Shades of the prison-house begin to close''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (l. 63-67). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
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  • ''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 (l. 1-2). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''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.''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (l. 81-84). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''Two voices are there; one is of the Sea,
    One of the Mountains; each a mighty Voice:
    In both from age to age Thou didst rejoice,
    They were thy chosen Music, Liberty!''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland (l. 1-4). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''To me alone there came a thought of grief;
    A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
    And I again am strong:''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (l. 22-24). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam—
    True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. To a Skylark (l. 17-18). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''And fade into the light of common day.''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (l. 76). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''But an old age serene and bright,
    And lovely as a Lapland night,
    Shall lead thee to thy grave.''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. To a Young Lady (1805).
  • ''Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
    Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
    Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
    The years to bring the inevitable yoke,''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood (l. 121-124). . . The Poems; Vol. 1 [William Wordsworth]. John O. Hayden, ed. (1977, repr. 1990) Penguin Books.
  • ''Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
    Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!''
    William Wordsworth (1770-1850), British poet. To Sleep (l. 13-14). . . 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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