William Wordsworth

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.

A mind forever voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.

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 be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of Human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death
In years that bring philophic mind.
William Wordsworth - The World is Too Much With Us
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!
William Wordsworth - "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood", 1803
To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

- William Wordsworth