Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.
What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude.
Love betters what is best.
And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind – But how could I forget thee?
Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
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.