Quotes from William Wordsworth

What though the radiance that was once so bright, be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

What we have loved, others will love, and we will teach them how; instruct them how the mind of man becomes a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells...

Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and its fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

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

I had melancholy thoughts... a strangeness in my mind, A feeling that I was not for that hour, Nor for that place.

Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan....

Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.

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

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.

And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind.

Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.

Sweet is the lore which nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things— We murder to dissect.

The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, The self-sufficing power of solitude.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

Faith is a passionate intuition.

Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home.

And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will:

A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.