To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together. Humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTHCome grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
More William Wordsworth Quotes
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The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
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We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
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Wisdom married to immortal verse.
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Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music; there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
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The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet’s dream.
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Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
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One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
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All that we behold is full of blessings.
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That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine.
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Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
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A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
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There is a comfort in the strength of love; ‘Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard. Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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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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And I am happy when I sing.
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Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
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Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
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As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH