William Wordsworth

The mind that is within us, how we feel, and how we live, and what we know, and what we see, is never more alive than in the presence of a great good.

Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the milky way, they stretched in never-ending line along the margin of a bay: ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.

The Child, by special privilege, is a being who has not yet lost the sense of wonder.

What we have loved, others will love, and we will teach them how.

The common growth of mother-earth suffices me.

The still, sad music of humanity.

For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude; and then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, how sweet his music! on my life, there's more of wisdom in it.

To every natural form, rock, fruit or flower, even the loose stones that cover the highway, I gave a moral life: I saw them feel, or linked them to some feeling: the great mass lay imbedded in a quickening soul, and all that I beheld respired with inward meaning.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benediction.

The earth is all before me. With a heart joyously beating, I go forth.

Nor less I deem that there are Powers which of themselves our minds impress; that we can feed this mind of ours in a wise passiveness.

The power of hills is not to be measured by their height, but by the grandeur of the thoughts they suggest.

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.

The child, by a divine instinct, is a lover of the beautiful.

Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

The eye, it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—We murder to dissect.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust burn to the socket.