William Wordsworth

Sweet is the lore which nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things — We murder to dissect.

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,
And has the nature of infinity.

For the gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.

Ocean is a mighty harmonist.

The world is too much with us.

Love betters what is best

Thence did I drink the visionary power;
And deem not profitless those fleeting moods
Of shadowy exultation: not for this,
That they are kindred to our purer mind
And intellectual life; but that the soul,
Remembering how she felt, but what she felt
Remembering not, retains an obscure sense
Of possible sublimity, whereto
With faculties still growing, feeling still
That whatsoever point they gain, they yet
Have something to pursue.

A cheerful life is what the Muses love, A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

Something between a hindrance and a help.

Thou unassuming Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace, Which Love makes for thee!

She hath smiles to earth unknown— Smiles that with motion of their own Do spread, and sink, and rise.

The Man of Science seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and love it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion.

No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.

The good die first.

Books! tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.