William Wordsworth

The best part of one's life is good deeds and love that no one else knows.

The fretful stir unprofitable, and the fever of the world have hung upon the beatings of my heart.

The mightiest lever known to the moral world, imagination.

The silence that is in the starry sky, the sleep that is among the lonely hills.

There is a luxury in self-dispraise; and inward self-disparagement affords to meditative spleen a grateful feast.

This son of his old age was yet more dear?less from instinctive tenderness, the same fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all?than that a child, more than all other gifts that earth can offer to declining man, brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, and stirrings of inquietude, when they by tendency of nature needs must fail.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, so didst thou travel on life's common way, in cheerful godliness.

Unprofitably travelling toward the grave.

We will grieve not, rather find

Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, -- or some secreted island, Heaven knows where! But in the very world, which is the world of all of us, -- the place where in the end we find our happiness, or not at all!

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.

One of those heavenly days that cannot die.

Pleasures newly found are sweet when they lie about our feet.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways beside the springs of Dove, a Maid whom there were none to praise and very few to love: a violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know when Lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and, oh, the difference to me!

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain that has been, and may be again.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; our meddling intellect mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:? we murder to dissect.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, that no philosophy can lift.

The gentle Lady married to the Moor, and heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb.

The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.

The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, which to this day stands single, in the midst of its own darkness, as it stood of yore.

Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn.

Well, I hope they may understand each other ? nobody else could.