The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions. |
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. |
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. |
There are in our existence spots of time That with distinct pre-eminence retain A renovating virtue, whence . . . our minds Are nourished and invisibly repaired. |
There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'T will make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart. . . . |
There is a dark invisible workmanship - that reconciles discordant elements - and makes them move in one society |
There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast. |
There neither is, nor can be, any essential" difference between the language of prose and metrical composition. |
There's not a man That lives who hath not known his god-like hours. |
There's not a nook within this solemn pass/ But were an apt confessional for one/ Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,/ That life is but a tale of morning grass/ Withered at eve. |
These feeble and fastidious times |
Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum/ Of things forever speaking./ That nothing of itself will come,/ But we must still be seeking? |
This city now doth, like a garment, wear the beauty of the morning; silent bare, ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. |
This dull product of a scoffer's pen. |
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. |