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.
Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow.
This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.