Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love who art a light to guide, a rod to check the erring and reprove.
That best portion of a good man's life; His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
The common growth of Mother Earth suffices me, -- her tears, her mirth, her humblest mirth and tears.
The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
The tendency, too potent in itself, of use and custom to bow down the soul under a growing weight of vulgar sense, and substitute a universe of death for that which moves with light and life informed, actual, divine, and true.
There's not a man that lives who hath not known his god-like hours.
Thou unassuming Common-place of Nature, with that homely face, and yet with something of a grace, which Love makes for thee!
To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend unto thy guidance from this hour; oh, let my weakness have an end!
Visionary power attends the motions of the viewless winds, embodied in the mystery of words.
What though the radiance which was once so bright be not forever taken from my sight, though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor 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.
No bird, but an invisible thing, a voice, a mystery.
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart for better lore would seldom yearn, could I but teach the hundredth part of what from thee I learn.
Oh for a single hour of that Dundee who on that day the word of onset gave!
Our meddlesome intellect misshapen the beauteous form of things.
Rapt into still communion that transcends the imperfect offices of prayer and praise.
Small circles glittering idly in the moon, until they melted all into one track of sparkling light.
Stern winter loves a dirge-like sound.
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.
The cottage which was named the Evening Star is gone.
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.
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 things which I have seen I now can see no more.
There's not a nook within this solemn pass but were an apt confessional for one taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, that life is but a tale of morning grass withered at eve.
Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, shalt show us how divine a thing a Woman may be made.