William Wordsworth

1:To begin, begin.
~ William Wordsworth,

2:We murder to dissect. ~ William Wordsworth,

3:In a wise passiveness. ~ William Wordsworth,

4:Faith is a passionate intuition.
~ William Wordsworth,

5:Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar. ~ William Wordsworth,

6:With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things. ~ William Wordsworth,

7: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

8: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.
~ William Wordsworth,

9:What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever 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.
~ William Wordsworth,

10:There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. ~ William Wordsworth, Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood,

* WISDOM TROVE *

* NEWFULLDB 2.4M *

1:For mightier far ~ William Wordsworth,

2:Truths that wake ~ William Wordsworth,

3:the Mind of Man-- ~ William Wordsworth,

4:Oh, be wise, Thou! ~ William Wordsworth,

5:in the mind of man, ~ William Wordsworth,

6:Milton, in his hand ~ William Wordsworth,

7:To begin, begin.
~ William Wordsworth,

8:A tale in everything. ~ William Wordsworth,

9:Rest and be thankful. ~ William Wordsworth,

10:We murder to dissect. ~ William Wordsworth,

11:Like an army defeated ~ William Wordsworth,

12:Nature's old felicities. ~ William Wordsworth,

13:Love betters what is best ~ William Wordsworth,

14:Let Nature be your teacher ~ William Wordsworth,

15:And I am happy when I sing. ~ William Wordsworth,

16:Imagination, which in truth ~ William Wordsworth,

17:The Rainbow comes and goes, ~ William Wordsworth,

18:A Primrose by a river's brim ~ William Wordsworth,

19:Have I not reason to lament ~ William Wordsworth,

20:The Eagle, he was lord above ~ William Wordsworth,

21:To be young was very heaven! ~ William Wordsworth,

22:Departing summer hath assumed ~ William Wordsworth,

23:There is creation in the eye. ~ William Wordsworth,

24:I travelled among unknown men, ~ William Wordsworth,

25:Meek Walton's heavenly memory. ~ William Wordsworth,

26:My heart leaps up when I behold ~ William Wordsworth,

27:"One impulse from a vernal wood ~ William Wordsworth,

28:The child is father of the man. ~ William Wordsworth,

29:The child is the father of man. ~ William Wordsworth,

30:'Tis my faith that every flower ~ William Wordsworth,

31:What are fears but voices airy? ~ William Wordsworth,

32:Dreams, books, are each a world. ~ William Wordsworth,

33:Faith is a passionate intuition. ~ William Wordsworth,

34:The ocean is a mighty harmonist. ~ William Wordsworth,

35:A brotherhood of venerable trees. ~ William Wordsworth,

36:Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan. ~ William Wordsworth,

37:One in whom persuasion and belief ~ William Wordsworth,

38:Wisdom married to immortal verse. ~ William Wordsworth,

39:A power is passing from the earth. ~ William Wordsworth,

40:Habit rules the unreflecting herd. ~ William Wordsworth,

41:The first cuckoo's melancholy cry. ~ William Wordsworth,

42:Wisdom and spirit of the Universe! ~ William Wordsworth,

43:Death is the quiet haven of us all. ~ William Wordsworth,

44:Faith is a passionate intuition.
~ William Wordsworth,

45:Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he ~ William Wordsworth,

46:Heaven lies about us in our infancy. ~ William Wordsworth,

47:Stop thinking for once in your life! ~ William Wordsworth,

48:There's something in a flying horse, ~ William Wordsworth,

49:True beauty dwells in deep retreats, ~ William Wordsworth,

50:Truth takes no account of centuries. ~ William Wordsworth,

51:Action is transitory, a step, a blow, ~ William Wordsworth,

52:Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. ~ William Wordsworth,

53:For nature then to me was all in all. ~ William Wordsworth,

54:He loves not well whose love is bold! ~ William Wordsworth,

55:Nor less I deem that there are Powers ~ William Wordsworth,

56:On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, ~ William Wordsworth,

57:We live by admiration, hope and love. ~ William Wordsworth,

58:A deep distress has humanised my soul. ~ William Wordsworth,

59:And mighty poets in their misery dead. ~ William Wordsworth,

60:But He is risen, a later star of dawn. ~ William Wordsworth,

61:Free as a bird to settle where I will. ~ William Wordsworth,

62:Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. ~ William Wordsworth,

63:Knowledge and increase of enduring joy ~ William Wordsworth,

64:Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. ~ William Wordsworth,

65:Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; ~ William Wordsworth,

66:Though nothing can bring back the hour ~ William Wordsworth,

67:We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love; ~ William Wordsworth,

68:And what if thou, sweet May, hast known ~ William Wordsworth,

69:Earth helped him with the cry of blood. ~ William Wordsworth,

70:Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial. ~ William Wordsworth,

71:The homely beauty of the good old cause ~ William Wordsworth,

72:The wealthiest man among us is the best ~ William Wordsworth,

73:All that we behold is full of blessings. ~ William Wordsworth,

74:Delivered from the galling yoke of time. ~ William Wordsworth,

75:Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, ~ William Wordsworth,

76:May books and nature be their early joy! ~ William Wordsworth,

77:Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. ~ William Wordsworth,

78:Since thy return, through days and weeks ~ William Wordsworth,

79:The unconquerable pang of despised love. ~ William Wordsworth,

80:The very flowers are sacred to the poor. ~ William Wordsworth,

81:Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed ~ William Wordsworth,

82:But to a higher mark than song can reach, ~ William Wordsworth,

83:Earth has not anything to show more fair. ~ William Wordsworth,

84:In years that bring the philosophic mind. ~ William Wordsworth,

85:The child shall become father to the man. ~ William Wordsworth,

86:The mysteries that cups of flowers infold ~ William Wordsworth,

87:The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. ~ William Wordsworth,

88:Where is it now, the glory and the dream? ~ William Wordsworth,

89:While all the future, for thy purer soul, ~ William Wordsworth,

90:Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged. ~ William Wordsworth,

91:Come, blessed barrier between day and day, ~ William Wordsworth,

92:O dearer far than light and life are dear. ~ William Wordsworth,

93:Of friends, however humble, scorn not one. ~ William Wordsworth,

94:Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. ~ William Wordsworth,

95:The memory of the just survives in Heaven. ~ William Wordsworth,

96:The primal duties shine aloft, like stars; ~ William Wordsworth,

97:Wisdom sits with children round her knees. ~ William Wordsworth,

98:Behold the Child among his new-born blisses ~ William Wordsworth,

99:Great is the glory, for the strife is hard! ~ William Wordsworth,

100:One of those heavenly days that cannot die. ~ William Wordsworth,

101:Plain living and high thinking are no more. ~ William Wordsworth,

102:That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton. ~ William Wordsworth,

103:The budding rose above the rose full blown. ~ William Wordsworth,

104:Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark. ~ William Wordsworth,

105:Careless of books, yet having felt the power ~ William Wordsworth,

106:Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, ~ William Wordsworth,

107:We must be free or die, who speak the tongue ~ William Wordsworth,

108:Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. ~ William Wordsworth,

109:A few strong instincts and a few plain rules. ~ William Wordsworth,

110:As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear ~ William Wordsworth,

111:Candide” never bored anybody except William Wordsworth. ~ Voltaire,

112:Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be. ~ William Wordsworth,

113:Far from the world I walk, and from all care. ~ William Wordsworth,

114:For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone. ~ William Wordsworth,

115:In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay ~ William Wordsworth,

116:Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; ~ William Wordsworth,

117:Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. ~ William Wordsworth,

118:Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated. ~ William Wordsworth,

119:Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour. ~ William Wordsworth,

120:Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye. ~ William Wordsworth,

121:Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity. ~ William Wordsworth,

122:Small service is true service, while it lasts. ~ William Wordsworth,

123:Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven." ~ William Wordsworth,

124:These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will. ~ William Wordsworth,

125:When men change swords for ledgers, and desert ~ William Wordsworth,

126:Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd ~ William Wordsworth,

127:How is it that you live, and what is it you do? ~ William Wordsworth,

128:Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke. ~ William Wordsworth,

129:Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, ~ William Wordsworth,

130:For all things are less dreadful than they seem. ~ William Wordsworth,

131:That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude. ~ William Wordsworth,

132:There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, ~ William Wordsworth,

133:What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars. ~ William Wordsworth,

134:Nature never did betray the heart that loved her. ~ William Wordsworth,

135:The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow ~ William Wordsworth,

136:Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever ~ William Wordsworth,

137:Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. ~ William Wordsworth,

138:poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge ~ William Wordsworth,

139:The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive! ~ William Wordsworth,

140:And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all. ~ William Wordsworth,

141:Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps ~ William Wordsworth,

142:Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood. ~ William Wordsworth,

143:The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. ~ William Wordsworth,

144:Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her. ~ William Wordsworth,

145:The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task. ~ William Wordsworth,

146:Books are the best type of the influence of the past. ~ William Wordsworth,

147:Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness. ~ William Wordsworth,

148:Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made. ~ William Wordsworth,

149:The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly. ~ William Wordsworth,

150:Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name. ~ William Wordsworth,

151:A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave! ~ William Wordsworth,

152:A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free. ~ William Wordsworth,

153:one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is ~ William Wordsworth,

154:But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity. ~ William Wordsworth,

155:A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove. ~ William Wordsworth,

156:One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave. ~ William Wordsworth,

157:Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them. ~ William Wordsworth,

158:Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, ~ William Wordsworth,

159:Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach. ~ William Wordsworth,

160:Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive. ~ William Wordsworth,

161:The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration. ~ William Wordsworth,

162:With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars. ~ William Wordsworth,

163:O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice? ~ William Wordsworth,

164:One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue. ~ William Wordsworth,

165:Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, ~ William Wordsworth,

166:A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy. ~ William Wordsworth,

167:Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance. ~ William Wordsworth,

168:Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind? ~ William Wordsworth,

169:The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul. ~ William Wordsworth,

170:We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted. ~ William Wordsworth,

171:Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods. ~ William Wordsworth,

172:Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar. ~ William Wordsworth,

173:Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs. ~ William Wordsworth,

174:A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity. ~ William Wordsworth,

175:... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. ~ William Wordsworth,

176:Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet. ~ William Wordsworth,

177:Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility. ~ William Wordsworth,

178:Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar. ~ William Wordsworth,

179:A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows. ~ William Wordsworth,

180:A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven. ~ William Wordsworth,

181:Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart. ~ William Wordsworth,

182:The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition. ~ William Wordsworth,

183:Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face. ~ William Wordsworth,

184:Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop
Than when we soar. ~ William Wordsworth,

185:A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone. ~ William Wordsworth,

186:And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. ~ William Wordsworth,

187:Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings. ~ William Wordsworth,

188:Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children. ~ William Wordsworth,

189:Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now. ~ William Wordsworth,

190:What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how. ~ William Wordsworth,

191:Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men. ~ William Wordsworth,

192:Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. ~ William Wordsworth,

193:Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher. ~ William Wordsworth,

194:In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is. ~ William Wordsworth,

195:The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more. ~ William Wordsworth,

196:Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils. ~ William Wordsworth,

197:We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind. ~ William Wordsworth,

198:Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence. ~ William Wordsworth,

199:Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least. ~ William Wordsworth,

200:Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet. ~ William Wordsworth,

201:He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own. ~ William Wordsworth,

202:She seemed a thing that could not feel the touch of earthly years. ~ William Wordsworth,

203:The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift. ~ William Wordsworth,

204:To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye. ~ William Wordsworth,

205:A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable. ~ William Wordsworth,

206:And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love. ~ William Wordsworth,

207:Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul. ~ William Wordsworth,

208:Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again. ~ William Wordsworth,

209:Then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils. ~ William Wordsworth,

210:Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen. ~ William Wordsworth,

211:The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart. ~ William Wordsworth,

212:His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless. ~ William Wordsworth,

213:Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises. ~ William Wordsworth,

214:Primroses, the Spring may love them; Summer knows but little of them. ~ William Wordsworth,

215:Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven. ~ William Wordsworth,

216:The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions. ~ William Wordsworth,

217:What we have loved
Others will love
And we will teach them how. ~ William Wordsworth,

218:Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath. ~ William Wordsworth,

219:[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence. ~ William Wordsworth,

220:Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. ~ William Wordsworth,

221:What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love? ~ William Wordsworth,

222:Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive
But to be young was very heaven. ~ William Wordsworth,

223:How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land! ~ William Wordsworth,

224:In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind. ~ William Wordsworth,

225:As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low. ~ William Wordsworth,

226:As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die! ~ William Wordsworth,

227:I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings. ~ William Wordsworth,

228:Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost. ~ William Wordsworth,

229:Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there. ~ William Wordsworth,

230:But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things. ~ William Wordsworth,

231:But who is innocent? By grace divine, Not otherwise,O Nature! we are thine. ~ William Wordsworth,

232:Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee? ~ William Wordsworth,

233:Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave! ~ William Wordsworth,

234:The vision and the faculty divine; Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse. ~ William Wordsworth,

235:Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold. ~ William Wordsworth,

236:Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author. ~ William Wordsworth,

237:Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity. ~ William Wordsworth,

238:A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart. ~ William Wordsworth,

239:Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm. ~ William Wordsworth,

240:Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place. ~ William Wordsworth,

241:At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. ~ William Wordsworth,

242:Be mild, and cleave to gentle things,
thy glory and thy happiness be there. ~ William Wordsworth,

243:There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead. ~ William Wordsworth,

244:Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen. ~ William Wordsworth,

245:A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight. ~ William Wordsworth,

246:Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song. ~ William Wordsworth,

247:Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found. ~ William Wordsworth,

248:Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray. ~ William Wordsworth,

249:And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore. ~ William Wordsworth,

250:In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought. ~ William Wordsworth,

251:The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream. ~ William Wordsworth,

252:Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. ~ William Wordsworth,

253:How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart. ~ William Wordsworth,

254:The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society. ~ William Wordsworth,

255:The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills. ~ William Wordsworth,

256:But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant ~ William Wordsworth,

257:Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect ~ William Wordsworth,

258:Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice. ~ William Wordsworth,

259:And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain. ~ William Wordsworth,

260:Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed. ~ William Wordsworth,

261:The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun. ~ William Wordsworth,

262:Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more. ~ William Wordsworth,

263:His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright. ~ William Wordsworth,

264:Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality. ~ William Wordsworth,

265:Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. ~ William Wordsworth,

266:The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket. ~ William Wordsworth,

267:The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells. ~ William Wordsworth,

268:To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot! ~ William Wordsworth,

269:Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time. ~ William Wordsworth,

270:Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man. ~ William Wordsworth,

271:The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind. ~ William Wordsworth,

272:From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed. ~ William Wordsworth,

273:Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find. ~ William Wordsworth,

274:Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home. ~ William Wordsworth,

275:Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells. ~ William Wordsworth,

276:The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains. ~ William Wordsworth,

277:And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw. ~ William Wordsworth,

278:Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting. ~ William Wordsworth,

279:The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way! ~ William Wordsworth,

280:Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither. ~ William Wordsworth,

281:To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. ~ William Wordsworth,

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

283:Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history? ~ William Wordsworth,

284:And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food. ~ William Wordsworth,

285:We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. ~ William Wordsworth,

286:But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave. ~ William Wordsworth,

287:Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride. ~ William Wordsworth,

288:Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives. ~ William Wordsworth,

289:That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love. ~ William Wordsworth,

290:The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky! ~ William Wordsworth,

291:Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance. ~ William Wordsworth,

292:The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears. ~ William Wordsworth,

293:The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart. ~ William Wordsworth,

294:Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil. ~ William Wordsworth,

295:In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.” —William Wordsworth ~ Gavin de Becker,

296:It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air. ~ William Wordsworth,

297:The best portion of a good man's life: his little, nameless unremembered acts of kindness and love. ~ William Wordsworth,

298:The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. ~ William Wordsworth,

299:Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy. ~ William Wordsworth,

300:A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. ~ William Wordsworth,

301:Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee. ~ William Wordsworth,

302:Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life. ~ William Wordsworth,

303:O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! ~ William Wordsworth,

304:That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair. ~ William Wordsworth,

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

306:In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.” —William Wordsworth All ~ Gavin de Becker,

307:Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees. ~ William Wordsworth,

308:Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind; And worse, against ourselves. ~ William Wordsworth,

309:But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!. ~ William Wordsworth,

310:The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink' ~ William Wordsworth,

311:Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters. ~ William Wordsworth,

312:Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.” William Wordsworth, ~ James Hollis,

313:With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things. ~ William Wordsworth,

314:I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led. ~ William Wordsworth,

315:I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase. ~ William Wordsworth,

316:Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more. ~ William Wordsworth,

317:My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man. ~ William Wordsworth,

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

319:Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness. ~ William Wordsworth,

320:We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope. ~ William Wordsworth,

321:But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation. ~ William Wordsworth,

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

323:A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death? ~ William Wordsworth,

324:In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . . ~ William Wordsworth,

325:Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee. ~ William Wordsworth,

326:If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong;--be worthy of the grace of God. ~ William Wordsworth,

327:In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness. ~ William Wordsworth,

328:Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion. ~ William Wordsworth,

329:There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast. ~ William Wordsworth,

330:She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me! ~ William Wordsworth,

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

332:The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. ~ William Wordsworth,

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

334:My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man; ~ William Wordsworth,

335:Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility. ~ William Wordsworth,

336:Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me. ~ William Wordsworth,

337:Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain. ~ William Wordsworth,

338:Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her. ~ William Wordsworth,

339:In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing. ~ William Wordsworth,

340:Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone. ~ William Wordsworth,

341:By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same! ~ William Wordsworth,

342:Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue. ~ William Wordsworth,

343:That no philosophy can lift. ~ William Wordsworth, Presentiments. Reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 596-97.,

344:This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed. ~ William Wordsworth,

345:He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy. ~ William Wordsworth,

346:Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth. ~ William Wordsworth,

347:She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love. ~ William Wordsworth,

348:Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth. ~ William Wordsworth,

349: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 ~ William Wordsworth,

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

351:Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart. ~ William Wordsworth,

352:Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security. ~ William Wordsworth,

353:My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. ~ William Wordsworth,

354:O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything. ~ William Wordsworth,

355:Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect. ~ William Wordsworth,

356:The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives. ~ William Wordsworth,

357:I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. ~ William Wordsworth,

358: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

359:The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will. ~ William Wordsworth,

360:Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years! ~ William Wordsworth,

361:How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold. ~ William Wordsworth,

362:Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can. ~ William Wordsworth,

363:There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart. ~ William Wordsworth,

364: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

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

366:Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science ~ William Wordsworth,

367:Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove. ~ William Wordsworth,

368:Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go! ~ William Wordsworth,

369:A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light ~ William Wordsworth,

370:Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. ~ William Wordsworth,

371:Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity. ~ William Wordsworth,

372: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! ~ William Wordsworth,

373:A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face. ~ William Wordsworth,

374:And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death. ~ William Wordsworth,

375:Imagination is the means of deep insight and sympathy, the power to conceive and express images removed from normal objective reality. ~ William Wordsworth,

376:Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow! ~ William Wordsworth,

377:For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity. ~ William Wordsworth,

378:For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity. ~ William Wordsworth,

379:But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? ~ William Wordsworth,

380:Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished. ~ William Wordsworth,

381:No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees. ~ William Wordsworth,

382:The eye--it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will. ~ William Wordsworth,

383:I look for ghosts; but none will force Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead. ~ William Wordsworth,

384:Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory. ~ William Wordsworth,

385:And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few. ~ William Wordsworth,

386:Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come. ~ William Wordsworth,

387:The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods. ~ William Wordsworth,

388:Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound. ~ William Wordsworth,

389:She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love and thought and joy. ~ William Wordsworth,

390:That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened. ~ William Wordsworth,

391:Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live! ~ William Wordsworth,

392: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

393:To character and success, two things, contradictory as they may seem, must go together... humble dependence on God and manly reliance on self. ~ William Wordsworth,

394: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? ~ William Wordsworth,

395:A dreamer, yet more spiritless and dull? ~ William Wordsworth, The Excursion, Book III. Reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 596-97.,

396:As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay. ~ William Wordsworth,

397:Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion. ~ William Wordsworth,

398:But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for humankind, Is happy as a lover. ~ William Wordsworth,

399:Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. ~ William Wordsworth,

400:True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart. ~ William Wordsworth,

401: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

402:Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy. ~ William Wordsworth,

403:Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone. ~ William Wordsworth,

404:A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. ~ William Wordsworth,

405:"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? ~ William Wordsworth,

406:By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there. ~ William Wordsworth,

407:I had melancholy thoughts . . . a strangeness in my mind, A feeling that I was not for that hour, Nor for that place. —William Wordsworth, The Prelude ~ Orhan Pamuk,

408:Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. ~ William Wordsworth,

409:A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature. ~ William Wordsworth,

410:Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams. ~ William Wordsworth,

411:The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. ~ William Wordsworth,

412:Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible; never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate; fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. ~ William Wordsworth,

413:Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! ~ William Wordsworth,

414:Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. ~ William Wordsworth,

415:Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws. ~ William Wordsworth,

416:Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love! ~ William Wordsworth,

417: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? ~ William Wordsworth, The Tables Turned.,

418:Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? ~ William Wordsworth,

419:He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure. ~ William Wordsworth,

420:On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away. ~ William Wordsworth,

421:When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude. ~ William Wordsworth,

422:Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays. ~ William Wordsworth,

423:The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world! ~ William Wordsworth,

424:Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us. ~ William Wordsworth,

425: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

426:When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop,
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,
How gracious, how benign, is Solitude ~ William Wordsworth,

427:Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future. ~ William Wordsworth,

428: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

429:Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever. ~ William Wordsworth,

430: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

431:'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind. ~ William Wordsworth,

432:The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this. ~ William Wordsworth,

433:And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple. ~ William Wordsworth,

434:Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight! ~ William Wordsworth,

435:On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of images before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed. ~ William Wordsworth,

436:Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine. ~ William Wordsworth,

437:Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. ~ William Wordsworth,

438:Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee! . . . . . . Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness. ~ William Wordsworth,

439: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

440:Books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. ~ William Wordsworth, Poetical Works, Personal Talk.,

441:The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. ~ William Wordsworth,

442:For by superior energies; more strict affiance in each other; faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good. ~ William Wordsworth,

443:Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. ~ William Wordsworth,

444: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

445:Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow. ~ William Wordsworth,

446: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

447:Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all ~ William Wordsworth,

448:I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections. ~ William Wordsworth,

449:One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact. ~ William Wordsworth,

450:Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent. ~ William Wordsworth,

451:Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man. ~ William Wordsworth,

452:This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. ~ William Wordsworth,

453:Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only there;With hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be. ~ William Wordsworth,

454:Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod! ~ William Wordsworth,

455:...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue. ~ William Wordsworth,

456:And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. ~ William Wordsworth,

457:Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love. ~ William Wordsworth,

458:I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A correspondent breeze, that gently moved With quickening virtue, but is now become A tempest, a redundant energy, Vexing its own creation. ~ William Wordsworth,

459: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

460: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

461: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;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be... ~ William Wordsworth,

462: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.
~ William Wordsworth,

463:Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth. ~ William Wordsworth,

464:Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature. ~ William Wordsworth,

465:Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know. ~ William Wordsworth,

466:Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn ~ William Wordsworth,

467:That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind. ~ William Wordsworth,

468:My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind. ~ William Wordsworth,

469:A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless. ~ William Wordsworth,

470:The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. ~ William Wordsworth,

471:Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest through. ~ William Wordsworth,

472:With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee! ~ William Wordsworth,

473:Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind. ~ William Wordsworth,

474:Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay And this our parting spring. * * * * * Then, little Bird, this boon confer, Come, and my requiem sing, Nor fail to be the harbinger Of everlasting spring. ~ William Wordsworth,

475:What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever 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.
~ William Wordsworth,

476:Either still I find Some imperfection in the chosen theme, Or see of absolute accomplishment Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, That I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity, Unprofitably travelling towards the grave. ~ William Wordsworth,

477:Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day. ~ William Wordsworth,

478: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 ~ William Wordsworth,

479: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

480:What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever 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. ~ William Wordsworth,

481:She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn. ~ William Wordsworth,

482:Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day! ~ William Wordsworth,

483:Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. ~ William Wordsworth,

484:The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. ~ William Wordsworth,

485: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

486:I've watched you now a full half-hour; Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again! ~ William Wordsworth,

487:It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly. ~ William Wordsworth,

488:In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs-in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. ~ William Wordsworth,

489:I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. ~ William Wordsworth,

490:The vapours linger round the Heights, They melt, and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine,— Sad thought, which I would banish, But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me,—to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow. ~ William Wordsworth, Yarrow Visited, 1814.,

491:If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man. ~ William Wordsworth,

492:Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world; One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear; And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man. ~ William Wordsworth,

493:A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride; And still be not unblest- compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and christian hope; Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost. ~ William Wordsworth,

494:I am already kindly disposed towards you. My friendship it is not in my power to give: this is a gift which no man can make, it is not in our own power: a sound and healthy friendship is the growth of time and circumstance, it will spring up and thrive like a wildflower when these favour, and when they do not, it is in vain to look for it. ~ William Wordsworth,

495:In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: - feelings, too, Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. ~ William Wordsworth,

496:Private courts, Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes Thrilled by some female vendor's scream, belike The very shrillest of all London cries, May then entangle our impatient steps; Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares, To privileged regions and inviolate, Where from their airy lodges studious lawyers Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green. ~ William Wordsworth,

497: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; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune. ~ William Wordsworth,

498: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; another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. ~ William Wordsworth,

499:Here must thou be, O man, Strength to thyself - no helper hast thou here - Here keepest thou thy individual state: No other can divide with thee this work, No secondary hand can intervene To fashion this ability. 'Tis thine, The prime and vital principle is thine In the recesses of thy nature, far From any reach of outward fellowship, Else 'tis not thine at all. ~ William Wordsworth,

500:I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. ~ William Wordsworth,

501:Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze, A visitant that while it fans my cheek Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings From the green fields, and from yon azure sky. Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come To none more grateful than to me; escaped From the vast city, where I long had pined A discontented sojourner: now free, Free as a bird to settle where I will. ~ William Wordsworth,

502:Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep And, Wordsworth, both are thine. ~ William Wordsworth,

503:And oft I thought (my fancy was-so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found: 'Here: will I dwell,' said I,' my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned. And end my days upon the peaceful flood - To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food. ~ William Wordsworth,

504:What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind. ~ William Wordsworth,

505:We have no knowledge, that is, no general principles drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, but what has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone. The Man of Science, the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever difficulties and disgusts they may have had to struggle with, know and feel this. However painful may be the objects with which the Anatomist's knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and where he has no pleasure he has no knowledge. ~ William Wordsworth,

506:What is a Poet? He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them. ~ William Wordsworth,

507:. . .this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 't is her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. ~ William Wordsworth,

508: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. ~ William Wordsworth,

509: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;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. ~ William Wordsworth,

510:Now if Newton had been a very plain, very dull, very matter-of-fact man, all that would be easily explicable. But I must make you see that he was not. He was really a most extraordinary, wild character. He practised alchemy. In secret, he wrote immense tomes about the Book of Revelation. He was convinced that the law of inverse squares was really already to be found in Pythagoras. And for such a man, who in private was full of these wild metaphysical and mystical speculations, to hold this public face and say, ‘I make no hypotheses’ – that is an extraordinary expression of his secret character. William Wordsworth in The Prelude has a vivid phrase, Newton, with his prism and silent face, which sees and says it exactly. Well, ~ Jacob Bronowski,

511:Voltaire Johnson
Why did you bruise me with your rough places
If you did not want me to tell you about them?
And stifle me with your stupidities,
If you did not want me to expose them?
And nail me with the nails of cruelty,
If you did not want me to pluck the nails forth
And fling them in your faces?
And starve me because I refused to obey you,
If you did not want me to undermine your tyranny?
I might have been as soul serene
As William Wordsworth except for you!
But what a coward you are, Spoon River,
When you drove me to stand in a magic circle
By the sword of Truth described!
And then to whine and curse your burns,
And curse my power who stood and laughed
Amid ironical lightning!
~ Edgar Lee Masters,

512:I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

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.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

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;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. ~ William Wordsworth,

513:Those are love tokens? I told my friend Eben I never saw such spiteful stuff. He said to me I had just not read the right poets. He took me into his cottage and lent me a little book of his own. It was the poetry of Wilfred Owen. He was an officer in the First World War, and he knew what was what and called it by its right name. I was there, too, at Passchendaele, and I knew what he knew, but I could never put it into words for myself. Well, after that, I thought there might be something to this poetry after all. I began to go to meetings, and I’m glad I did, else how would I have read the works of William Wordsworth—he would have stayed unknown to me. I learned many of his poems by heart. Anyway, I did win the hand of the Widow Hubert—my Nancy. I got her to go for a walk along the cliffs one evening, and I said, “Lookie there, Nancy. The gentleness of Heaven broods o’er the sea—Listen, the mighty Being is awake.” She let me kiss her. She is now my wife. Yours truly, Clovis Fossey ~ Mary Ann Shaffer,

514:She Was A Phantom of Delight

She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament:
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light. ~ William Wordsworth,

515:Brian Wilson went to bed for three years. Jean-Michel Basquiat would spend all day in bed. Monica Ali, Charles Bukowski, Marcel Proust, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Tracey Emin, Emily Dickinson, Edith Sitwell, Frida Kahlo, William Wordsworth, René Descartes, Mark Twain, Henri Matisse, Kathy Acker, Derek Jarman and Patti Smith all worked or work from bed and they’re productive people. (Am I protesting too much?) Humans take to their beds for all sorts of reasons: because they’re overwhelmed by life, need to rest, think, recover from illness and trauma, because they’re cold, lonely, scared, depressed – sometimes I lie in bed for weeks with a puddle of depression in my sternum – to work, even to protest (Emily Dickinson, John and Yoko). Polar bears spend six months of the year sleeping, dormice too. Half their lives are spent asleep, no one calls them lazy. There’s a region in the South of France, near the Alps, where whole villages used to sleep through the seven months of winter – I might be descended from them. And in 1900, it was recorded that peasants from Pskov in northwest Russia would fall into a deep winter sleep called lotska for half the year: ‘for six whole months out of the twelve to be in the state of Nirvana longed for by Eastern sages, free from the stress of life, from the need to labour, from the multitudinous burdens, anxieties, and vexations of existence’.‡ Even when I’m well I like to lie in bed and think. It’s as if ~ Viv Albertine,

516:Vale la pena soffermarci su quest’incubo [della fine della letteratura e delle arti], per come Borges ce lo racconta in una sua conversazione sui sogni e gli incubi.
Il terribile sogno è del poeta inglese William Wordsworth e si trova nel secondo [rectius: quinto] libro del poema The Prelude — un poema autobiografico, come dice il sottotitolo. Fu pubblicato nel 1850, l’anno stesso della morte del poeta. Allora non si pensava, come invece oggi, a un possibile cataclisma cosmico che annientasse ogni grande opera umana, se non l’umanità interamente.
Ma Wordsworth ne ebbe la preoccupazione e, in sogno, la visione.
Ed ecco come Borges l’assume e riassume nel suo discorso: “Nel sogno la sabbia lo circonda, un Sahara di sabbia nera. Non c’è acqua, non c’è mare. Sta al centro del deserto — nel deserto si sta sempre al centro — ed è ossessionato dal pensiero di come fare per sfuggire al deserto, quando vede qualcuno vicino a lui. Stranamente, è un arabo della tribù dei beduini, che cavalca un cammello e ha nella mano destra una lancia.
Sotto il braccio sinistro ha una pietra; nella mano una conchiglia. L’arabo gli dice che ha la missione di salvare le arti e le scienze e gli avvicina la conchiglia all’orecchio; la conchiglia è di straordinaria bellezza. Wordsworth ci dice che ascoltò la profezia (‘in una lingua che non conoscevo ma che capii’): una specie di ode appassionata, che profetizzava che la Terra era sul punto di essere distrutta dal diluvio che l’ira di Dio mandava. L’arabo gli dice che è vero, che il diluvio si avvicina, ma che egli ha una missione: salvare l’arte e le scienze. Gli mostra la pietra. La pietra, stranamente, è la Geometria di Euclide pur rimanendo una pietra. Poi gli avvicina la conchiglia, che è anche un libro: è quello che gli ha detto quelle cose terribili. La conchiglia è, anche, tutta la poesia del mondo, compreso, perche' no?, il poema di Wordsworth.
Il beduino gli dice: ‘Devo salvare queste due cose, la pietra e la conchiglia, entrambi libri’. Volge il viso all’indietro, e vi è un momento in cui Wordsworth vede che il volto del beduino cambia, si riempie di orrore. Anche lui si volge e vede una gran luce, una luce che ha inondato metà del deserto. Questa luce è quella dell’acqua del diluvio che sta per sommergere la Terra. Il beduino si allontana e Wordsworth vede che è anche don Chisciotte, che il cammello è anche Ronzinante e che allo stesso modo che la pietra è il libro e la conchiglia il libro, il beduino è don Chisciotte e nessuna delle due cose ed entrambe nello stesso tempo”...
l’immagine di don Chisciotte che si allontana invincibilmente richiama quella dipinta da Daumier, forse contemporaneamente. E ci è lecito, in aura borgesiana, chiederci se il poeta e il pittore non abbiano fatto lo stesso sogno. ~ Leonardo Sciascia,

517:76. David Hume – Treatise on Human Nature; Essays Moral and Political; An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding
77. Jean-Jacques Rousseau – On the Origin of Inequality; On the Political Economy; Emile – or, On Education, The Social Contract
78. Laurence Sterne – Tristram Shandy; A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy
79. Adam Smith – The Theory of Moral Sentiments; The Wealth of Nations
80. Immanuel Kant – Critique of Pure Reason; Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals; Critique of Practical Reason; The Science of Right; Critique of Judgment; Perpetual Peace
81. Edward Gibbon – The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; Autobiography
82. James Boswell – Journal; Life of Samuel Johnson, Ll.D.
83. Antoine Laurent Lavoisier – Traité Élémentaire de Chimie (Elements of Chemistry)
84. Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, and James Madison – Federalist Papers
85. Jeremy Bentham – Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation; Theory of Fictions
86. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe – Faust; Poetry and Truth
87. Jean Baptiste Joseph Fourier – Analytical Theory of Heat
88. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel – Phenomenology of Spirit; Philosophy of Right; Lectures on the Philosophy of History
89. William Wordsworth – Poems
90. Samuel Taylor Coleridge – Poems; Biographia Literaria
91. Jane Austen – Pride and Prejudice; Emma
92. Carl von Clausewitz – On War
93. Stendhal – The Red and the Black; The Charterhouse of Parma; On Love
94. Lord Byron – Don Juan
95. Arthur Schopenhauer – Studies in Pessimism
96. Michael Faraday – Chemical History of a Candle; Experimental Researches in Electricity
97. Charles Lyell – Principles of Geology
98. Auguste Comte – The Positive Philosophy
99. Honoré de Balzac – Père Goriot; Eugenie Grandet
100. Ralph Waldo Emerson – Representative Men; Essays; Journal
101. Nathaniel Hawthorne – The Scarlet Letter
102. Alexis de Tocqueville – Democracy in America
103. John Stuart Mill – A System of Logic; On Liberty; Representative Government; Utilitarianism; The Subjection of Women; Autobiography
104. Charles Darwin – The Origin of Species; The Descent of Man; Autobiography
105. Charles Dickens – Pickwick Papers; David Copperfield; Hard Times
106. Claude Bernard – Introduction to the Study of Experimental Medicine
107. Henry David Thoreau – Civil Disobedience; Walden
108. Karl Marx – Capital; Communist Manifesto
109. George Eliot – Adam Bede; Middlemarch
110. Herman Melville – Moby-Dick; Billy Budd
111. Fyodor Dostoevsky – Crime and Punishment; The Idiot; The Brothers Karamazov
112. Gustave Flaubert – Madame Bovary; Three Stories
113. Henrik Ibsen – Plays
114. Leo Tolstoy – War and Peace; Anna Karenina; What is Art?; Twenty-Three Tales
115. Mark Twain – The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn; The Mysterious Stranger
116. William James – The Principles of Psychology; The Varieties of Religious Experience; Pragmatism; Essays in Radical Empiricism
117. Henry James – The American; The Ambassadors
118. Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche – Thus Spoke Zarathustra; Beyond Good and Evil; The Genealogy of Morals;The Will to Power
119. Jules Henri Poincaré – Science and Hypothesis; Science and Method
120. Sigmund Freud – The Interpretation of Dreams; Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis; Civilization and Its Discontents; New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis
121. George Bernard Shaw – Plays and Prefaces ~ Mortimer J Adler,

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