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 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.
Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, through words and things, a dim and perilous way.
Truths that wake, to perish never.
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, when such are wanted.
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.
Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children.
Strength in what remains behind.
That time is past, and all its aching joys are now no more, and all its dizzy raptures. Not for this faint i, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts have followed; for such loss, I would believe, abundant recompense. For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue. And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man; a motion and a spirit, that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought, and rolls through all things. Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth; of all the mighty world of eye, and ear,?both what they half create, and what perceive; well pleased to recognize in nature and the language of the sense, the anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, the guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul of all my moral being.
The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
The little unremembered acts of kindness and love are the best parts of a person's life.
The reason firm, the temperate will, endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; perfect woman, nobly planned, to warn, to comfort, and command.