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.
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 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!