The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations

Crammed just as they on earth were crammed— Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,

But, as you by their faces see, All silent and all damned!

‘Peter Bell’ pt. 1, st. 66 in MS of 1819, later omitted

A Poet!—He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff

Which Art hath lodged within his hand—must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule.

‘A Poet! He hath put his heart’ (1842)

Physician art thou?—one, all eyes, Philosopher!—a fingering slave, One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother’s grave?

‘A Poet’s Epitaph’ (1800)

A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, An intellectual All-in-all!

‘A Poet’s Epitaph’ (1800)

In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart,— The harvest of a quiet eye,

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak; both Man and Boy,

Hath been an idler in the land;

Contented if he might enjoy

The things which others understand.

—Come hither in thy hour of strength;

Come, weak as is a breaking wave.

‘A Poet’s Epitaph’ (1800)

I recoil and droop, and seek repose In listlessness from vain perplexity,

Unprofitably travelling toward the grave.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 1, l. 265

Made one long bathing of a summer’s day.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 1, l. 290

Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up Fostered alike by beauty and by fear.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 1, l. 301

When the deed was done

I heard among the solitary hills

Low breathings coming after me, and sounds Of undistinguishable motion, steps

Almost as silent as the turf they trod.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 1, l. 321

Though mean

Our object and inglorious, yet the end Was not ignoble.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 1, l. 328

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.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 1, l. 340

The grim shape

Towered up between me and the stars, and still, For so it seemed, with purpose of its own

And measured motion like a living thing, Strode after me.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 1, l. 382

For many days, my brain

Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 1, l. 391

Huge and mighty forms that do not live

Like living men, moved slowly through the mind By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 1, l. 398

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

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 2, l. 76

To thee

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.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 2, l. 211

Where the statue stood

Of Newton, with his prism and silent face,

The marble index of a mind for ever

Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 3, l. 61

Spirits overwrought

Were making night do penance for a day Spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 4, l. 376

Even forms and substances are circumfused By that transparent veil with light divine, And, through the turnings intricate of verse, Present themselves as objects recognised, In flashes, and with glory not their own.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 5, l. 601

We were brothers all

In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 9, l. 227

All things have second birth;

The earthquake is not satisfied at once.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 10, l. 83

In the People was my trust,

And in the virtues which mine eyes had seen.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 11, l. 11

Not in Utopia—subterranean fields,—

Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where! But in the very world, which is the world

Of all of us,—the place where, in the end We find our happiness, or not at all!

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 11, l. 140

There is

One great society alone on earth: The noble Living and the noble Dead.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 11, l. 393

I shook the habit off Entirely and for ever, and again

In Nature’s presence stood, as now I stand, A sensitive being, a creative soul.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 12, l. 204

Imagination, which, in truth,

Is but another name for absolute power

And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And Reason in her most exalted mood.

‘The Prelude’ (1850) bk. 14, l. 190

There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising, calm and bright.

‘Resolution and Independence’ (1807) st. 1

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 are we deified:

We poets in our youth begin in gladness;

But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.

‘Resolution and Independence’ (1807) st. 7

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, But each in solemn order followed each, With something of a lofty utterance drest—

Choice words, and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men; a stately speech;

Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use.

‘Resolution and Independence’ (1807) st. 14

The fear that kills;

And hope that is unwilling to be fed; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; And mighty Poets in their misery dead. —Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, My question eagerly I did renew.

‘How is it that you live, and what is it you do?’

‘Resolution and Independence’ (1807) st. 17

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

‘The Reverie of Poor Susan’

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,

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 betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned,

To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light.

‘She was a phantom of delight’ (1807)

For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell.

‘Simon Lee’ (1798)

A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears:

She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees;

Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.

‘A slumber did my spirit seal’ (1800)

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.

‘Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle’ (1807)

O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

‘The Small Celandine’ (There is a flower, 1807)

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover’s head!

‘O mercy!’ to myself I cried, ‘If Lucy should be dead!’

‘Strange Fits of Passion’ (1800)

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind

I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom

But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb.

‘Surprised by joy’ (1815)

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books; Or surely you’ll grow double.

‘The Tables Turned’ (1798)

Our meddling intellect

Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect.

Enough of science and of art; Close up these barren leaves.

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives.

‘The Tables Turned’ (1798)

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,

With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned— Albeit labouring for a scanty band

Of white-robed Scholars only—this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence!

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more.

‘Tax not the royal Saint’ (1822) (referring to King’s College Chapel, Cambridge)

I’ve measured it from side to side: ’Tis three feet long and two feet wide.

‘The Thorn’ (1798) st. 3 (early reading)

O blithe new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! Shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

‘To the Cuckoo’ (O blithe new-comer!, 1807)

Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees.

‘To the Same Flower [Daisy]’ (With little here to do, 1807)

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of heaven and home!

‘To a Skylark’ (Ethereal minstrel!, 1827)

There’s a flower that shall be mine, ’Tis the little celandine.

‘To the Small Celandine’ (Pansies, lilies, 1807)

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,

And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont’s side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;

I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.

‘To the Spade of a Friend’ (1807)

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

‘To a Young Lady’ (1802)

Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast 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.

‘Toussaint, the most unhappy man’ (1803)

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice, In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

‘Two Voices are there’ (1807)

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

‘We are Seven’ (1798) (the words ‘dear brother Jim’ were omitted in the 1815 edition of his poems)

I take my little porringer And eat my supper there.

‘We are Seven’ (1798)

‘But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!’

’Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, ‘Nay, we are seven!’

‘We are Seven’ (1798)

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.

‘The world is too much with us’ (1807)

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 wreathéd horn.

‘The world is too much with us’ (1807).

The Poet writes under one restriction only, namely, that of the necessity of giving pleasure to a human Being possessed of that information which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a mariner, an astronomer or a natural philosopher, but as a Man.

‘Lyrical Ballads’ (2nd ed., 1802) preface

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all science.

‘Lyrical Ballads’ (2nd ed., 1802) preface

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity.

‘Lyrical Ballads’ (2nd ed., 1802) preface

Never forget what I believe was observed to you by Coleridge, that 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.

Letter to Lady Beaumont, 21 May 1807

11.136 Sir Henry Wotton 1568-1639

How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another’s will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!

‘The Character of a Happy Life’

Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book, or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall:— Lord of himself, though not of lands,

And having nothing, yet hath all.

‘The Character of a Happy Life’

He first deceased; she for a little tried

To live without him: liked it not, and died.

‘Death of Sir Albertus Moreton’s Wife’

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes,

More by your number, than your light; You common people of the skies, What are you when the moon shall rise?

‘On His Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia’

In architecture as in all other operative arts, the end must direct the operation. The end is to build well. Well building hath three conditions. Commodity, Firmness, and Delight.

‘Elements of Architecture’ (1624) pt. 1

Take heed of thinking, The farther you go from the church of Rome, the nearer you are to God.

In Izaak Walton ‘Sir Henry Wotton’, in Christopher Wordsworth ‘Ecclesiastical Biography’ (1810) vol. 5, p. 44; first published in Walton’s first edition of ‘Reliquiae Wottonianae’ (1651)

An ambassador is an honest man sent to lie abroad for the good of his country.

Written in the album of Christopher Fleckmore in 1604. Izaak Walton ‘Life’

11.137 Frank Lloyd Wright 1867-1959

The necessities were going by default to save the luxuries until I hardly knew which were necessities and which luxuries.

‘Autobiography’ (1945) bk. 2, p. 108

The physician can bury his mistakes, but the architect can only advise his client to plant vines —so they should go as far as possible from home to build their first buildings.

‘New York Times’ 4 Oct. 1953, sec. 6, p. 47

11.138 Sir Thomas Wyatt c.1503-42

And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay, say nay, for shame.

‘An Appeal’

What should I say, Since faith is dead, And Truth away From you is fled?

‘Farewell’

They flee from me, that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.

I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild, and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand.

‘Remembrance’

When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small,