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

Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.

Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.

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.

A tale in everything.