William Wordsworth cytaty

strona 8

„Najlepsza część życia ludzkiego to małe, bezimienne i zapomniane akty dobroci i miłości.”

„Sam wędrowałem, jak obłoczek
Często sam płynie przez przestworza,
Gdy nagle widok mnie zaskoczył
Złotych żonkili tłumu, morza;
Od wód jeziora aż po drzewa
Tańczyły – wiatr im w takt powiewał.”

„Poezja bierze początek ze wzruszenia rozpamiętywanego w spokoju.”

„Gdzie stał posąg Newtona, z pryzmatem, w milczeniu. Marmurowy pomnik umysłu, zawsze samotnie podróżującego przez dziwne morza myśli.”

„Nasze narodziny nie są niczym innym niż snem i zapomnieniem.”

„Każda dobra poezja jest spontanicznym wybuchem głębokich uczuć.”

„Podążaj naprzód, do światła rzeczy, pozwól naturze być twoim nauczycielem.”

“But he is risen, a later star of dawn.”

“Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.”

“Turning, for them who pass, the common dust
Of servile opportunity to gold.”

“A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company.”

“Every gift of noble origin
Is breathed upon by Hope’s perpetual breath.”

“Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.”

“Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart.”

“But shapes that come not at an earthly call,
Will not depart when mortal voices bid.”

“Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be?”

“How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land!”

“Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The Ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon!
There's joy in the mountains:
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone.”

“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.”

“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.”

“But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.”

“What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover's head!
"O mercy!" to myself I cried,
"If Lucy should be dead!"”

“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?”

“Sad fancies do we then affect,
In luxury of disrespect
To our own prodigal excess
Of too familiar happiness.”

“These feeble and fastidious times.”

“Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice.”

“Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.”

“She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:”

“And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.”

“And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy because
We have been glad of yore.”

“She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!”

“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.”

“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!”

“Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!”

“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.”

“The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the poet's dream.”