William Wordsworth Quotes

Sweetest melodies Are those that are by distance made more sweet.

A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.

The good old rule Sufficeth them, the simple plan, That they should take, who have the power, And they should keep who can.

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 heavy weight of many a weary day Not mine, and such as were not made for me.

we not only wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that particular
way in which we have been accustomed to be pleased.

A Night Piece

The sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground — from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up — the clouds are split
Asunder, — and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not! — the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent; — still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene

In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
The stars they were among my dreams;
In sleep did I behold the skies

One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason;
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is the countenance of all science.

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

Drink, pretty creature, drink!

Books! tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.