Quotes About Inspiration

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky...

I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils.

Enough, if something from our hands have powerTo live, and act, and serve the future hour.

A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills...

Enough of science and art, Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart Thst watches and receives.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.

What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.

What we have loved, others will love, and we will teach them how; instruct them how the mind of man becomes a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells...

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

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

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

Faith is a passionate intuition.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

I heard a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Go to the poets, they will speak to thee More perfectly of purer creatures--

Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason; Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season.

A poet does not see or hear or feel things that others do not see or hear or feel. What makes a person a poet is the ability to recall what she has felt and seen and heard. And to relive it and describe it in such a way that others can then see and feel and hear again what they may have missed.

But thou art with us, with us in the past, The present, with us in the times to come. There is no grief, no sorrow, no despair, No languor, no dejection, no dismay, No absence scarcely can there be, for those Who love as we do. Speed thee well!

A cheerful life is what the Muses love, A soaring spirit is their prime delight.