For mightier far_x000D_ _x000D_ Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway_x000D_ _x000D_ Of magic potent over sun and star,_x000D_ _x000D_ Is love, though oft to agony distrest,_x000D_ _x000D_ And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.
Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
Interpretation
What this quote means
The quote reflects the solitary joy of reading and the introspective nature of enjoying literature that may resonate only with oneself.
In this quote, William Wordsworth expresses a deep sense of solitude intertwined with the pleasure of reading. He suggests that there is a unique enjoyment found in engaging with literature, which may remain a private experience, potentially unshared by others. This sentiment highlights the introspective and personal nature of reading, where individuals can find solace and joy in narratives that speak to their own experiences and emotions, even if they are the only ones who appreciate that particular book.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
In a speech about the importance of reading, one might use this quote to highlight the personal connection one can have with books.
More from William Wordsworth
All quotes βBy 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.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,_x000D_ _x000D_ The earth, and every common sight,_x000D_ _x000D_ To me did seem_x000D_ _x000D_ Apparelled in celestial light,_x000D_ _x000D_ The glory and the freshness of a dream.
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.
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.
Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
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