Action is transitory—a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle, this way or that— 'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed. William Wordsworth: The Borderers
Birth
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar. William Wordsworth
Children and Childhood
The Child is father of the Man.William Wordsworth
Death
The good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. William Wordsworth: The Excursion
Flowers and Trees
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils. William Wordsworth
Flowers and Trees
To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. William Wordsworth
Kindness
. . . that best portion of a good man's life. His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. William Wordsworth
Mercy and Compassion
Worse than idle is compassion If it ends in tears and sighs. William Wordsworth
Nature
Nature never did betray The heart that loved her. William Wordsworth
Pain and Suffering
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity. William Wordsworth: The Borderers
Poetry and Poets
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity.William Wordsworth: Lyrical Ballads
Sky and Space
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man: So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! William Wordsworth
Taste
Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.William Wordsworth
The World
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! William Wordsworth
Wisdom and Sense
Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop Than when we soar. William Wordsworth: The Excursion