With gentle handTouch -- for there is a spirit in the woods.
But trailing clouds of glory do we come,From God, who is our homeHeaven lies about us in our infancy
A poet who has not produced a good poem before he is twenty-five, we may conclude cannot, and never will do so.
After ten months' melancholy, Became a good and honest man.
The good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket
And so the grandeur of the Forest-treeComes not by casting in a formal mould,But from its own divine vitality.
I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deedsWith coldness still returningAlas the gratitude of menHath oftener left me mourning.
but(for) she is in her grave - and, oh, the difference to me
Unprofitably travelling toward the grave.
What are fears but voices airyWhispering harm where harm is not.And deluding the unwaryTill the fatal bolt is shot
My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky.
And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat Man has made of Man.
The fretful stirUnprofitable, and the fever of the worldHave hung upon the beatings of my heart.
O Nightingale, thou surely art A creature of a 'fiery heart'.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky.
Well, I hope they may understand each other nobody else could.
A man of hope and forward-looking mind Even to the last
As if his whole vocationWere endless imitation.
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, An intellectual all-in-all
The intellectual power, through words and things,Went sounding on a dim and perilous way
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress.
O dearest, dearest boy my heartFor better lore would seldom yearn,Could I but teach the hundredth partOf what from thee I learn.
So was it when my life beganSo is it now I am a manSo be it when I shall grow old,Or let me die
Lost in a gloom of uninspired research.
A day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.