William Wordsworth

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark and shares the nature of infinity.

The bane of all that dread the Devil.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

The love of God is passionate. He pursues each of us even when we know it not.

The 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.

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'twill make a thing endurable, which else would over-set the brain, or break the heart.

This city now doth, like a garment, wear the beauty of the morning; silent bare, ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me no bird, but an invisible thing, a voice, a mystery.

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea, one of the mountains; each a mighty Voice.

We not only wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that particular way in which we have been accustomed to be pleased.

Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams --can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.

Ocean is a mighty harmonist.

One in whom persuasion and belief had ripened into faith, and faith become a passionate intuition.

Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.

Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.

Society has parted man from man, neglectful of the universal heart.

Surprised by joy- impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport-- Oh! with whom but thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, that spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--but how could I forget thee? Through what power, even for the least division of an hour, have I been so beguiled as to be blind to my most grievous loss? -- That thought's return was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; that neither present time, nor years unborn could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

The best of what we do and are, just God, forgive!

The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.

The man whose eye is ever on himself doth look on one, the least of Nature's works, one who might move the wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds unlawful, ever. O, be wiser, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; true dignity abides with him alone who, in the silent hour of inward thought, can still suspect, and still revere himself, in loneliness of heart.

The sightless Milton, with his hair around his placid temples curled; and Shakespeare at his side,?a freight, if clay could think and mind were weight, for him who bore the world!

There is a dark invisible workmanship - that reconciles discordant elements - and makes them move in one society

This dull product of a scoffer's pen.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.