William Wordsworth Quotes

Little solace comes to those who grieve when thoughts keep drifting as walls keep shifting and this great blue world of ours seems a house of leaves moments before the wind.

Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!

Childhood feels so permanent, like it's the entire world, and then one day it's over and you're shoveling wet dirt onto your father's coffin, stunned at the impermanence of everything.

We tried not to age, but time had its rage.

Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?

Roy Acuff was a big hero for me, and I was so sad when he passed. It's hard as you get older to lose your friends and family.

And all the winds go sighing, for sweet things dying.

I long for the time of no more departures. It has something to do with age, probably.

I had many decades of me time and now I just don't have that anymore. There are days when I rail against it.

I think when your parents die, it is kind of like a moving sidewalk: you're not just on the sideline and watching them go by. You know, you're going to the same place they are.

I miss all of my old friends who have passed away. Sometimes you just don't understand why they were taken so soon. I loved and miss Johnny Cash. I miss my old buddy Johnny Paycheck, who happens to be buried in an area of the cemetery that I bought for my family.

As the blessings of health and fortune have a beginning, so they must also find an end. Everything rises but to fall, and increases but to decay.

Every winning streak will have to end sometime.

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal - every other affliction to forget: but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open - this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.

The top of a pinnacle now, firewood soon

I'm hyper-focused on loss. But I know it's just the impermanence of being here.

The hardest thing for me is the sense of impermanence. All passes; nothing returns.

To us who remain behind is left this day of memories. Every year--in the full tide of spring, at the height of the symphony of flowers and love and life--there comes a pause, and through the silence we hear the lonely pipe of death.

Things pass us by. Nobody can catch them. That's the way we live our lives.

I kept quiet, but the knowledge gathered like a storm. I could see the future: My father wasn't coming back. And this one fact seemed to point to other facts and others still: Love frays and humans fail, time passes, eras end.

Time is the rider that breaks youth.

To whatever end. Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?

Neither our own passing nor the passing of an era is a tragedy, no matter how much we would like to think it is.