Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Knowledge and increase of enduring joy From the great Nature that exists in works Of mighty Poets.
The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
One in whom persuasion and belief Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.
It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.
The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.
Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.
O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.
But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose type of things through all degrees.
Burn all the statutes and their shelves: They stir us up against our kind; And worse, against ourselves.
But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
The best portion of a good man's life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.
I'm not talking about a "show me other walls of this thing" button, I mean a "stumble" button for wallbase.
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.
Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.
Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
We have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, And overspread the future years with hope.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man.
But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong;--be worthy of the grace of God.
In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love; And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh The difference to me!
The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
What are fears but voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not. And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.
In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.
Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.