William Wordsworth Quotes, Country Quotes, Fear Quotes

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?

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The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

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All that we behold is full of blessings.

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The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

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... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

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And I am happy when I sing.

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Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all

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For nature then to me was all in all.

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A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.

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Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

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Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!

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Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.

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poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

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The child is the father of man.

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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

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Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

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All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.

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Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.

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Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

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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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