Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.

'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

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

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

The child is father of the man.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!