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 Wandered Lonely as a CloudI 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,...

Here must thou be, O man,Strength to thyself — no helper hast thou here —Here keepest thou thy individual state:No other can divide with thee this work,No secondary hand can interveneTo fashion this ability. ‘Tis...

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.

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...

What though the radiance which was once so brightBe now for ever taken from my sight,Though nothing can bring back the hourOf splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;We will grieve not, rather...

Duty were our games.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Rest and be thankful.

Nature never did betrayThe heart that loved her.

What is a Poet? He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a...

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;Our meddling intellectMis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—We murder to dissect.

Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

She Was A Phantom of DelightShe was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleam’d upon my sight;A lovely Apparition, sentTo be a moment’s ornament:Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;But...

In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.

She was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleam’d upon my sight;A lovely Apparition, sentTo be a moment’s ornament:Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her...

Society has parted man from man, neglectful of the universal heart.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

The best portion of a good man’s life: his little, nameless unremembered acts of kindness and love.

Surprised by joy- impatient as the WindI turned to share the transport– Oh! with whomBut thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind–But...

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

All that we behold is full of blessings.

My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;

Hence, in a season of calm weatherThough inland far we be,Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

[…]the stately and slow-moving Turk,With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm.

Habit rules the unreflecting herd.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

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...

Is then no nook of English ground secureFrom rash assault?

But thou art with us, with us in the past,The present, with us in the times to come.There is no grief, no sorrow, no despair,No languor, no dejection, no dismay,No absence scarcely can there be,...

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 child is the father of the man.

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.

we not only wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that particularway in which we have been accustomed to be pleased.

The power of any art is limited

Though nothing can bring back the hourOf splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;We will grieve not, rather findStrength in what remains behind;In the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be…

But trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home.

When from our better selves we have too longBeen parted by the hurrying world, and droop,Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,How gracious, how benign, is Solitude

A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at...

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,And has the nature of infinity.

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.

Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

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.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Go to the poets, they will speak to theeMore perfectly of purer creatures–

Lines Written In Early SpringI heard a thousand blended notes,While in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind.To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul...

friend is the one who showes the way and walks a piece of road with us

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...