Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

A power is passing from the earth.

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.

Truth takes no account of centuries.