William Wordsworth

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.

But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.

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.

Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.

O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.

A deep distress has humanised my soul.

Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.

...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.

Meek Walton's heavenly memory.

Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.

Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feeling of the Author.

And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner's eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.

With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.