William Wordsworth Quotes, Angel Quotes, Blood Quotes

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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Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.

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For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude

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That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!

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But to a higher mark than song can reach, Rose this pure eloquence.

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The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.

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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.

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The child is father of the man.

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One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.

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Far from the world I walk, and from all care.

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But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

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The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

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Tags : William Wordsworth Quotes , Sick Quotes , Lovers Quotes

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

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Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

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Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.

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The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!

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I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.

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

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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?

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Tags : William Wordsworth Quotes , Friendship Quotes , Book Quotes