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Part i. xiv.
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
Part i. xvi. We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
She was a Phantom of Delight.
A Creature not too bright or good
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To the Duisy.
* Journeying on life's common way
In cheerful godliness. Hurdis, (Sir T. MORE).
The Poet's Darling. Thou unassuming commonplace of Nature.
I Wandered Lonely.
eye Which is the bliss of solitude.
Resolution and Independence.
Part i. St. 7. I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride ; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side.
Hart-Leap Well. Part ii. “ A jolly place,” said he, “ in times of old ! But something ails it now: the spot is cursed.”
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride,
Tintern Abbey. Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her.
Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
That best portion of a good man's life,
That blessed mood,
The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colors and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm By thoughts supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
Nor greetings where no kindness is.
Poems of the Imagination.
xxix. Like - but oh! how different.
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
xxxvi. Show us how divine a thing A Woman may be made.
But an old age serene and bright
Prologue. St. 1. There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.
Prologue. St. 27.
Part i. St. 12.
Part i. St. 15.
Part i. St. 26.
As if the man had fixed his face,
Part i. xxx. The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration.
Part i. xxxiii. The world is too much with us; late and soon Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
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.
Part i. xxxv. '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.