William Wordsworth Quotes, Children Quotes, Childhood Quotes

The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow

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'Tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes!

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Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.

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He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.

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Tags : William Wordsworth Quotes , Fear Quotes , Future Quotes

The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

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A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!

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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

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On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.

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Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

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The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

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in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.

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Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.

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

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Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

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It may be safely affirmed that there neither is, nor can be, any essential difference between the language of prose and metrical composition.... They both speak by and to the same organs; the bodies in which both of them are clothed may be said to be of the same substance, their affections are kindred, and almost identical, not necessarily differing even in degree; Poetry sheds no tears "such as Angels weep," but natural and human tears; she can boast of no celestial ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from those of prose; the same human blood circulates through the veins of them both.

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Great God! 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

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We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love; And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.

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Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.

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The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

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In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

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