William Wordsworth

The child is father of the man.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

That though the radiance which was once so bright be now for ever taken from my sight, though nothing can bring back the hour of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

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.

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!

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

Not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home.

The best portion of a good man's life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.

Nor less I deem that there are Powers / Which of themselves our minds impress; / That we can feed this mind of ours / In a wise passiveness.

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

Come forth into the light of things, let Nature be your teacher.