William Wordsworth

Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is.

Like—but oh, how different!

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

But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave.

Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, Shalt show us how divine a thing A Woman may be made.

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!

The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the poet's dream.

Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose types of things through all degrees.

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

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

O Blithe newcomer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice?

Bright flower! whose home is everywhere Bold in maternal nature's care And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity,

Of vast circumference and gloom profound, This solitary Tree! A living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore.

Hail to thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, linnet! in thy green array, Presiding spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May; And this is thy dominion.

Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.

O for a single hour of that Dundee, Who on that day the word of onset gave!

Rapine, avarice, expense This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and …

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; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die!