William Wordsworth

The music in my heart I bore long after it was heard no more.

How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.

The child is father of the man.

Nature never did betray The heart that loved her.

One impluse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.