Our meddling intellect misshapes the beauteous forms of things we murder to dissect.
Recognizes ever and anon the breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
Small service is true service while it lasts. Of humblest friends, bright creature! Scorn not one: the daisy, by the shadow that it casts, protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
Still glides the Stream, and shall forever glide; the Form remains, the Function never dies.
That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
The dreary intercourse of daily life, shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb our cheerful faith, that all which we behold is full of blessings, Therefore let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
The intellectual power, through words and things, went sounding on, a dim and perilous way!
The primal duties shine aloft, like stars; The charities that soothe and heal and bless Are scattered at the feet of man like flowers.
The waves beside them danced; but they out-did the sparkling waves in glee: a poet could not but be gay, in such a jocund company.
There's something in a flying horse, there's something in a huge balloon; but through the clouds i'll never float until i have a little boat, shaped like the crescent-moon.
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...
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
We have within ourselves enough to fill the present day with joy, and overspread the future years with hope.
What, you are stepping westward?
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.
O joy! that in our embers is something that doth live.
Oh, be wiser thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.
Our noisy years seem moments in the being of the eternal silence.
Rest and be thankful.
Small service is true service, while it lasts.
Still longed for, never seen.
That mighty orb of song, the divine Milton.
The Eagle, he was lord above, And Rob was lord below.
The knowledge both of the Poet and the Man of science is pleasure; but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as a necessary part of our existence, our natural and unalienable inheritance; the other is a personal and individual acquisition, slow to come to us, and by no habitual and direct sympathy connecting us with our fellow-beings. The Man of science seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science. Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, ?that he looks before and after.? He is the rock of defense for human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying everywhere with him relationship and love. In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs: in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed; the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the Poet?s thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favorite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge?it is as immortal as the heart of man.
The Rainbow comes and goes, and lovely is the Rose.