One solace yet remains for us who came into this world in days when story lacked severe research, that in our hearts we know how, for exciting youth's heroic flame, assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
Poetry contains a natural delineation of human passions, human characters, and human incidents.
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; and humble cares, and delicate fears; a heart, the fountain of sweet tears; and love and thought and joy.
Some sipping punch, some sipping tea, but, as you by their faces see, all silent and all damned!
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven this minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; the rueful conflict, the heart riven with vain endeavor, and memory of earth's bitter leaven effaced forever.
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
The gods approve the depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.
The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.
The sounding cataract haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, the mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, their colours and their forms, were then to me an appetite; a feeling and a love, that had no need of a remoter charm, by thought supplied, nor any interest unborrowed from the eye.
There is One great society alone on earth: The noble living and the noble dead.
Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock of history?
To begin, begin.
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame and even the motion of our human blood 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.
What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary till the fatal bolt is shot!
not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound, This solitary Tree! A living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
She hath smiles to earth unknown?smiles that with motion of their own do spread, and sink, and rise.
Something between a hindrance and a help.
'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, and do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep no more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, the Winds come to me from the fields of sleep.
The good die first; and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust burn to the socket.