Small service is true service, while it lasts.
Still longed for, never seen.
That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
The dreary intercourse of daily life, shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb our cheerful faith, that all which we behold is full of blessings, Therefore let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
The intellectual power, through words and things, went sounding on, a dim and perilous way!
The primal duties shine aloft, like stars; The charities that soothe and heal and bless Are scattered at the feet of man like flowers.
The waves beside them danced; but they out-did the sparkling waves in glee: a poet could not but be gay, in such a jocund company.
There's something in a flying horse, there's something in a huge balloon; but through the clouds i'll never float until i have a little boat, shaped like the crescent-moon.
Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind; in the primal sympathy which having been must ever be...
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
We have within ourselves enough to fill the present day with joy, and overspread the future years with hope.
What, you are stepping westward?
No Nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebri.
O Nightingale, thou surely art/ A creature of a 'fiery heart'.
On a fair prospect some have looked, and felt, as i have heard them say, as if the moving time had been a thing as steadfast as the scene on which they gazed themselves away.
Pan himself, The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god!
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.