Quotes by William Wordsworth

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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

The little unremembered acts of kindness and love are the best parts of a person's life.
The best portion of a good man's life is in his little nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
That best portion of a good man's life; His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
Come into the light of things. Let nature be your teacher.
That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
With the eye made quiet by power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign in solitude.
I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
The child is the father of the man.
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 comet from afar: not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home.
I traveled among unknown men, in lands beyond the sea; nor England! did I know till then what love I bore to thee.
Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams --can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years.
For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
Lost in a gloom of uninspired research.
Small service is true service, while it lasts.
Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.
A day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-calculated less or more.
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
For by superior energies; more strict affiance in each other; faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
This city now doth, like a garment, wear the beauty of the morning; silent bare, ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world; One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger -- to let fall a tear; And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
Is there not an art, a music, and a stream of words that shalt be life, the acknowledged voice of life?
The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
Thought and theory must precede all salutary action; yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.
It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field.
Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains!
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!

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