Quotes
Quotes - Wordsworth
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction.
Those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings,
Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised.
Truths that wake,
To perish never.
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither.
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
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.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Two voices are there: one is of the sea,
One of the mountains,--each a mighty voice.
Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
The silence that is in the starry sky.
The monumental pomp of age
Was with this goodly personage;
A stature undepressed in size,
Unbent, which rather seemed to rise
In open victory o'er the weight
Of seventy years, to loftier height.
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
With these dark words begins my tale;
And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring
When prayer is of no avail?
A few strong instincts, and a few plain rules.
Of blessed consolations in distress.
The vision and the faculty divine;
Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise.
That mighty orb of song,
The divine Milton.
The good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket.
This dull product of a scoffer's pen.
With battlements that on their restless fronts
Bore stars.
