William Wordsworth

Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour.

What is pride? A whizzing rocket That would emulate a star.

And beauty, for confiding youth, Those shocks of passion can prepare That kill the bloom before its time; And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind.

But shapes that come not at an earthly call, Will not depart when mortal voices bid.

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

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

A few strong instincts and a few plain rules, Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought More for mankind at this unhappy day Then all the pride of intellect and thought?

Action is transitory—a step, a blow— The motion of a muscle—this way or that— 'Tis done; and in the after-vacancy We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed.

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie; His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice.

He sang of love, with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending; Of serious faith, and inward glee; That was the song,—the song for me!

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness.

Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters.

Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,—air, earth, and skies! There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable …

Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great, is passed away.

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee; And was the safeguard of the west: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea.

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array.