William Wordsworth

The Child is father of the Man.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

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

Earth has not anything to show more fair.

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

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.

Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music; there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.

And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

The best portion of a good man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science.

To the solid ground Of nature trusts the mind that builds for aye.

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