William Wordsworth

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

That inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.

That best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!

The child is father of the man.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.