How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.
The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose.
Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.
The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.
Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.
Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze, A visitant that while it fans my cheek Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings From the green fields, and from yon azure sky. Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come To none more grateful than to me; escaped From the vast city, where I long had pined A discontented sojourner: now free, Free as a bird to settle where I will.
[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.
She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.
Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only there;With hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
What is a Poet? He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them.
The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
May books and nature be their early joy!
Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.
Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.
Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.
In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.
For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
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