Quotes
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Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
Intimations of Immortality
The soft blue sky did never melt
Into his heart; he never felt
The witchery of the soft blue sky!
Into his heart; he never felt
The witchery of the soft blue sky!
Peter Bell
Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit, and play with similes,
Loose type of things through all degrees.
I sit, and play with similes,
Loose type of things through all degrees.
To the same Flower
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye;
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
Half hidden from the eye;
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,�
Of moral evil and of good,�
Than all the sages can.
May teach you more of man,�
Of moral evil and of good,�
Than all the sages can.
The Tables Turned
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
Intimations of Immortality
How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
A Poet! He hath put his Heart to School
The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite,—a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm
By thoughts supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite,—a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm
By thoughts supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.
Lines completed a few miles above Tintern Abbey
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon
The golden apples of the sun.
The silver apples of the moon
The golden apples of the sun.
The Wind Among the Reeds, 1899, The Song of Wandering, Aengus
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