William Wordsworth

For mightier far_x000D_ _x000D_ Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway_x000D_ _x000D_ Of magic potent over sun and star,_x000D_ _x000D_ Is love, though oft to agony distrest,_x000D_ _x000D_ And though his favourite be feeble woman's breast.

By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,_x000D_ _x000D_ The earth, and every common sight,_x000D_ _x000D_ To me did seem_x000D_ _x000D_ Apparelled in celestial light,_x000D_ _x000D_ The glory and the freshness of a dream.

Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune.

Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.

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

We live by admiration, hope and love.

And what if thou, sweet May, hast known_x000D_ _x000D_ Mishap by worm and blight;_x000D_ _x000D_ If expectations newly blown_x000D_ _x000D_ Have perished in thy sight;_x000D_ _x000D_ If loves and joys, while up they sprung,_x000D_ _x000D_ Were caught as in a snare;_x000D_ _x000D_ Such is the lot of all the young,_x000D_ _x000D_ However bright and fair.

Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.

The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.

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

Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.

Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,-air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.