William Wordsworth

For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom But Thee.

Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop Than when we soar.

To me the meanest flower that blows would give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home.

The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.

Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower.

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

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty.

The River glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man.

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!

A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own.'

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride.