Wild is the music of the autumnal wind among the faded woods.
Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave; forgive me if the phrase be strong;? a Poet worthy of Rob Roy must scorn a timid song.
When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow for old, unhappy, far-off things and battles long ago.
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice; Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, Frozen by distance.
Where are your books? - that light bequeathed to beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed from dead men to their kind.
Wisdom and spirit of the Universe! Thou soul is the eternity of thought! That giv'st to forms and images a breath and everlasting motion! Not in vain by day or star-light thus from by first dawn of childhood didst thou intertwine for me the passions that build up our human soul, not with the mean and vulgar works of man, but with high objects, with enduring things, with life and nature, purifying thus the elements of feeling and of thought, and sanctifying, by such discipline both pain and fear, until we recognize a grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Wisdom married to immortal verse.
Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, festively she puts forth in trim array.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony.
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.
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?