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.

Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.

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

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray.

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

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