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 is the lore which Nature brings; our meddling intellect mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:? we murder to dissect.
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 without hope we suffer and we mourn.
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
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.