To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament.

A mind forever voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.

How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and in that freedom bold.

The little unremembered acts of kindness and love are the best parts of a person's life.

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;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be not forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
Grief not, rather find,
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of Human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death
In years that bring philophic mind.

That best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.

Nature never did betray The heart that loved her.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benedictions.

Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop Than when we soar.