Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
So build we up the being that we are.
Strange fits of passion have I known: and I will dare to tell, but in the lover's ear alone, what once to me befell.
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.
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 her bosom to the moon; the winds that will be howling at all hours, and are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers, for this, for everything, we are out of tune; it moves us not. Great God! I?d rather be a pagan suckled in a creed outworn; so might I, standing on this pleasant lea, have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; or hear old Triton blow his wreathŠd horn.
These beauteous forms, through a long absence, have not been to me as is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, with tranquil restoration: ?feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world Is lighten'd:? that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,? 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.
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved.
We live by admiration, hope and love; and even as these are well and wisely fixed, in dignity of being we ascend.
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life.
O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.
Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee; and was the safeguard of the west: the worth of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
Part of the loveliest of the good human life, are all acts that small, nameless, forgotten, of kindness and love
Science appears but what in truth she is, not as our glory and our absolute boast, but as a succedaneum, and a prop to our infirmity.
So was it when my life began; so is it now I am a man; so be it when I shall grow old, or let me die!
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, howe'er disguised in its own majesty, is littleness; that he, who feels contempt for any living thing, hath faculties which he has never used; that thought with him is in its infancy...
That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
The earth was all before me. With a heart joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.
The light that never was, on sea or land, the consecration, and the poet's dream.
The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, the heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: and Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils.
These feeble and fastidious times.