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Part i. xiv.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart.

So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness.*

Part i. xvi. We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.

One of those heavenly days that cannot die.

She was a Phantom of Delight.
But all things else about her drawn
From Maytime and the cheerful Dawn.

A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food ;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.


A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command.

To the Duisy.
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.

* 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.
That inward

eye Which is the bliss of solitude.

A Youth to whom was given
So much of earth, so much of heaven.

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,
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

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,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love.

That blessed mood,
In which the burden of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened.

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
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.

Peter Bell.

Prologue. St. 1. There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon.

Prologue. St. 27.
The common growth of Mother Earth
Suffices me, — her tears, her mirth,
Her humblest mirth and tears.

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Part i. St. 12.
A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.

Part i. St. 15.
The soft blue sky did never melt
Into his heart; he never felt
The witchery of the soft blue sky !

Part i. St. 26.

As if the man had fixed his face,
In many a solitary place,
Against the wind and open sky!

Miscellaneous Sonnets.

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.

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