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.
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What though the radiance which was once so bright Be not forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; Grief not, rather find, Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of Human suffering, In the faith that looks through death In years that bring philophic mind.
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Nature never did betray The heart that loved her.
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe Thou soul is the eternity of thought That giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion Not in vain By day or star-light thus from by first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul, Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, But with high objects, with enduring things, With life and nature, purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying, by such discipline Both pain and fear, until we recognize A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food;...
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Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.
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What though the radiance which was once so bright Be not forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of Human suffering, In the faith that looks through death In years that bring philophic mind.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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The good die first And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket.
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Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
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Four years and thirty, told this very week,Have I been now a sojourner on earth,And yet the morning gladness is not goneWhich then was in my mind.
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Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.
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A mind forever voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.
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The ocean is a mighty harmonist.
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A slumber did my spirit seal;/ I had no human fears:/ She seemed a thing that could not feel/ The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force;/ She neither hears nor sees;/ Rolled round in earth's diurnal course. . .
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Many are our joysIn youth, but oh! what happiness to liveWhen every hour brings palpable accessOf knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,And sorrow is not there!
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The human mind is capable of excitement without 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.
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How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
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That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
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the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
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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 comet from afar: not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home.
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As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie/ Couched on the bald top of an eminence.
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As high as we have mounted in delight,In our dejection do we sink as low.
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My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky.
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O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live,
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For still, the more he works, the moreDo his weak ankles swell.
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Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, Like London with its own black wreath,
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benedictions.
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Surprised by joy -- impatient as the windI wished to share the transport.
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