William Wordsworth Quotes

Ocean is a mighty harmonist.

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart

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

True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride; And still be not unblest—compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope; Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

Lives there a man whose sole delights Are trivial pomp and city noise, Hardening a heart that loathes or slights What every natural heart enjoys?

The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.

Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know.

Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour.

What is pride? A whizzing rocket That would emulate a star.

And beauty, for confiding youth, Those shocks of passion can prepare That kill the bloom before its time; And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind.

But shapes that come not at an earthly call, Will not depart when mortal voices bid.

A few strong instincts and a few plain rules, Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought More for mankind at this unhappy day Then all the pride of intellect and thought?