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.
And so the grandeur of the Forest-treeComes not by casting in a formal mould,But from its own divine vitality.
Unprofitably travelling toward the grave.
And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat Man has made of Man.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky.
As if his whole vocationWere endless imitation.
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.
That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
The child is father of the man.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
What is pride A rocket that emulates the stars.
The Child is the father of the Man.
What we need is not the will to believe, but the wish to find out.
That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none Look up a second time, and, one by one, You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, And wonder how they could elude the sight
Well, I hope they may understand each other aa nobody else could.
There are in our existence spots of timeThat with distinct pre-eminence retainA renovating virtue, whence . . . our mindsAre nourished and invisibly repaired.
Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
All the mighty world of eye, and ear, both what they half create, and what they percieve.
Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger -- to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
We have within ourselvesEnough to fill the present day with joy,And overspread the future years with hope.
Picture Quotes to Inspire and Delight