330 quotes
That mighty orb of song,
The divine Milton.
The Excursion (1814)
A power is passing from the earth.
Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed (1919)
Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be?
Character of the Happy Warrior (1806)
Why should not grave Philosophy be styled?
Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock,
A dreamer, yet more spiritless and dull?
Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array.
What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides,
Thee, Vesper! brightening still, as if the nearer
Thou com'st to man's abode the spot grew dearer
Night after night?
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven
This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,
And memory of earth's bitter leaven
Effaced forever.
Memorials of a Tour in Scotland (1803)
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
Frozen by distance.
Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed (1919)
Of one in whom persuasion and belief
Had ripened into faith, and faith become
A passionate intuition.
The Excursion (1814)
A youth to whom was given
So much of earth—so much of heaven,
And such impetuous blood.
Lyrical Ballads (1798)
And she hath smiles to earth unknown—
Smiles that with motion of their own
Do spread, and sink, and rise.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye;
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed (1919)
But ne'er to a seductive lay let faith be given;
Nor deem that "light that leads astray" is light from Heaven.
The streams with softest sound are flowing,
The grass you almost hear it growing,
You hear it now, if e'er you can.
Fair seedtime had my soul, and I grew up
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear.
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair,
Like twilight's too her dusky hair.
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
No sound is uttered,—but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.