“For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude”

“I Wandered Lonely as a CloudI wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.”

“Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoopThan when we soar.”

“Imagination! lifting up itselfBefore the eye and progress of my SongLike and unfather'd vapour; here that PowerIn all the might of its endowments, cameAthwart me; I was lost as in a cloud,Halted without a struggle to break through,And now recovering to my Soul I sayI recognize they glory; in such strengthOf usurpation, in such visitingsOf awful promise, when the light of senseGoes out in flashes that have shewn to usThe invisible world, doth Greatness make abodeThere harbours whether we be young or old. Our destiny, our nature, and our homeIs with infinitude, and only there;With hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort, and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.”

“Bliss it was in that dawn to be aliveBut to be young was very heaven.”

“When from our better selves we have too longBeen parted by the hurrying world, and droop,Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,How gracious, how benign, is Solitude”

“Lines Written In Early SpringI heard a thousand blended notes,While in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind.To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat man has made of man.Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;And 'tis my faith that every flowerEnjoys the air it breathes.The birds around me hopped and played,Their thoughts I cannot measure:--But the least motion which they madeIt seemed a thrill of pleasure.The budding twigs spread out their fan,To catch the breezy air;And I must think, do all I can,That there was pleasure there.If this belief from heaven be sent,If such be Nature's holy plan,Have I not reason to lamentWhat man has made of man?”