Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
Source: Hart-leap Well. Part ii.
Contributed by: Zaady
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?
Source: Memorials of a Tour in Italy. iv.
Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
Source: A narrow Girdle of rough Stones and Crags.
Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
Source: Desultory Stanza.
In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .
Pan himself, The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god!
Source: The Excursion. Book iv.
For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago.
Source: The Solitary Reaper.
Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.
Source: Intimations of Immortality. Stanza 9.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction.
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