William Wordsworth Quotes

These hands which stretch out, implore, beg, then rise to the head in a gesture of calamity.

Hope is a punishable offense. The verdict is always death; one more death of the heart.

Life is a concentration camp. You're stuck here and there's no way out and you can only rage impotently against your persecutors.

Hell is no other but a soundlesse pit, Where no one beame of comfort peeps in it.

The dull pain of truth weights my soul, pulling it under. I am left hopelessly awake.

Life is absolutely unbearable. And we're going to die.

We might as well die as to go on living like this.

They'll take everything, even your tears.

I have no mouth, and I must scream.

Please believe that I do this because I am convinced that my illness cannot be helped for any length of time and I cannot bear to be a burden on anyone any longer.

The ending is one of my blackest, utterly without hope of any sort.

It seems as if life and hope must cease together.

When you are debilitated, and you're very depressed, and you believe there's no hope, you cannot get a better potpourri of down.

The best thing would be to break your neck, but you'd probably just break your leg and then you couldn't do a thing. You'd yell at the top of your lungs, but nobody;d hear you, and you couldn't expect anybody to find you, and you'd have centipedes and spiders crawling all over you, and the bones of the ones who died before are scattered all around you, and it's dark and soggy, and way overhead there's this tiny, tiny circle of light like a winter moon. You die there in this place, little by little, all by yourself.

There sighs, lamentations and loud wailings resounded through the starless air, so that at first it made me weep; strange tongues, horrible language, words of pain, tones of anger, voices loud and hoarse, and with these the sound of hands, made a tumult which is whirling through that air forever dark, and sand eddies in a whirlwind.

A dungeon horrible, on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all; but torture without end.

When life is woe, and hope is dumb, the World says, "Go!" The Grave says, "Come!

There's not even room enough to be anywhere/It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.../I was born here and I'll die here against my will/I know it looks like I'm moving, but I'm standing still.

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night!

I have no other pictures of the world apart from those which express evanescence, and callousness, vanity and anger, emptiness, orhideous useless hate. Everything has merely confirmed what I had seen and understood in my childhood: futile and sordid fits of rage, cries suddenly blanketed by the silence, shadows swallowed up for ever by the night.

My pain is constant and sharp...this confession has meant nothing

My soul is a dark ploughed field In the cold rain; My soul is a broken field Ploughed by pain.

Sometimes...you can cry until there's nothing wet in you. You can scream and curse to where your throat rebels and ruptures. You can pray, all you want, to whatever god you think will listen. And, still it makes no difference. It goes on, with no sign as to when it might release you. And you know that if it ever did relent...it would not be because it cared.

In misery's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely want retir'd to die.