Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
The best portion of a good man's life: his little, nameless unremembered acts of kindness and love.
Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop Than when we soar.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
Nature never did betray The heart that loved her.
Rest and be thankful.
Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more.
Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man;
There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
When from our better selves we have too long Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign, is Solitude
The eye--it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will.
Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
Love betters what is best
Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.
Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan....
The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind.
Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home.
Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
Faith is a passionate intuition.
... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and its fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Sweet is the lore which nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; —We murder to dissect.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting...
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
What we have loved, others will love, and we will teach them how; instruct them how the mind of man becomes a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells...
I listen'd, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
The good die first.
Therefore, let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty-mountain winds be free to blow against thee.
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.
All that we behold is full of blessings.
She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene, The memory of what has been, And never more will be.
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!
How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
Duty were our games.
Hence, in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good.
But trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home.
And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, The self-sufficing power of solitude.
I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ~ but like lemmings running headlong to the sea, we are oblivious.
In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars they were among my dreams; In sleep did I behold the skies
Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
A deep distress hath humanised my soul.
Feeling comes in aid Of feeling, and diversity of strength Attends us, if but once we have been strong.
Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is the countenance of all science.
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town.
Go to the poets, they will speak to thee More perfectly of purer creatures--
I travelled among unknown men in lands beyond the sea . . .
The world is too much with us.
...and in thy voice I catch the language of my former heart, and read my former pleasures in the shooting lights of thy wild eyes.
He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure: No fears to beat away - no strife to heal, The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And has the nature of infinity.
Getting and spending we lay waste our powers.
A cheerful life is what the Muses love, A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
Society has parted man from man, neglectful of the universal heart.
Though nothing will bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
He is by nature led To peace so perfect that the young behold With envy, what the old man hardly feels.
Is then no nook of English ground secure From rash assault?
Our meddlesome intellect misshapen the beauteous form of things.
Poetry is the image of man and nature
Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
We not only wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that particular way in which we have been accustomed to be pleased.
One Lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
The child is father of the man
O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live.
I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftener left me mourning.
Where are your books? - that light bequeathed To beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind.
[...]the stately and slow-moving Turk, With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm.
The child is the father of the man.
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
