Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.
Tag: William Wordsworth
Total 5 Posts
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; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
What though the radiance which was once so bright Be not forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;Grief not, rather find, Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever
A mind forever voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.