Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility. – William Wordsworth
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity. – William Wordsworth
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold. – William Wordsworth
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. – William Wordsworth