Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.
The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
The Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society.
But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant
Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.
Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect
A Primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him And it was something more.
And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
While all the future, for thy purer soul, With "sober certainties" of love is blest.
Memories... images and precious thoughts that shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.
To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.
The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.
Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination.
From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.
The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.
Laying out grounds may be considered a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.
The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!
Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
The mysteries that cups of flowers infold And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,Frozen by distance.
The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.