He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.

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.

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

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

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.