To be young was very heaven!
Wisdom sits with children round her knees.
I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
Truth takes no account of centuries.
The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.
When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.
A tale in everything.
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
The unconquerable pang of despised love.
Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.
The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.