Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.
O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
Prompt to move but firm to wait -- knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.
Oh, be wise, Thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
A babe, by intercourse of touch I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart.
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind; And worse, against ourselves.
That best portion of a good man's life; His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
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.
The little unremembered acts of kindness and love are the best parts of a person's life.
What we need is not the will to believe, but the wish to find out.
How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!
The Eagle, he was lord above.
In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
This city now doth, like a garment, wear the beauty of the morning; silent bare, ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen.
Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
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.
The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
The best portion of a good man's life: His little, nameless unremembered acts of kindness and love.
And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
A violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye; Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
Then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils.
To begin, begin.
Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.
The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
Imagination, which in truth
Is but another name for absolute power
And clearest insight, amplitude of mind,
And reason, in her most exalted mood.
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.
Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
Mathematics is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
Father! -- to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven.
Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
His high endeavors are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright.
Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.
Is then no nook of English ground secure
From rash assault?
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Rapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love!
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind -- But how could I forget thee?
The primal duties shine aloft, like stars;
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless,
Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
Rest and be thankful.
Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
A great poet ought to a certain degree to rectify men's feelings... to render their feelings more sane, pure and permanent, in short, more consonant to Nature.
And now the whole wide lake in deep repose Is hush'd, and like a burnish'd mirror glows.
Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; Look up a second time, and, one by one, You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, And wonder how they could elude the sight!
This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
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.
'Tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes!
Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.
By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect.
Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
The human mind is capable of excitementwithout the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trails its wreath;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure;
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can
That there was pleasure there.
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?
Life is divided into three terms -- that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present to live better in the future.
The education of circumstances is superior to that of tuition.
And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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.
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
Sweetest melodies.Are those that are by distance made more sweet.
Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
Faith is a passionate intuition.
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; 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!
This 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;
It moves us not.--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 wreathed horn.
We live by admiration, hope and love.
We live by admiration, hope, and love;
And, even as these are well and wisely fixed,
In dignity of being we ascend.
The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air.
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
One interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.
Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
The child is father of the man.
No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.
Thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, reads't the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind.
Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The Ploughboy is whooping -- anon -- anon!
There's joy in the mountains:
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone.
Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove.
Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever
Known to the moral world, Imagination.
One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
One daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
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.
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
Though nothing can 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;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be.
For by superior energies; more strict affiance in each other; faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
The clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild.
The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage; A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
I wandered lonely as a cloud.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of golden daffodils
Beside the lake beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
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 in solitude.
Sweet childish days, that were as long, As twenty days are now.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge -- it is as immortal as the heart of man.
Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science.
Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.
Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.
That to this mountain-daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!
Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams -- can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
One impulse from a vernal wood.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come.
And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.
Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.
But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
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.
Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.
Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.