William Wordsworth Quotes, Heart Quotes, Keys Quotes

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

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The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

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Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible; never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate; fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

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The child is the father of man.

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Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

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I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.

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The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.

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The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

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Imagination, which in truth Is but another name for absolute power And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And reason, in her most exalted mood.

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Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.

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Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

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What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

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Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.

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my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion.

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A tale in everything.

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The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'

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Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave.

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A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.

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With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!

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Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality.

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