Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.
Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch’d 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 oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you ’ll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.
What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
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.
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge – it is as immortal as the heart of man.
The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.