Quotes from William Wordsworth

A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.

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

Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.

The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

The primal duties shine aloft, like stars; The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.

Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.

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.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.

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

When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.

Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.

one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.

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.

Nature is a volume of which God is the author.

The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.

May books and nature be their early joy!

The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.

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