She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.

one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few.

Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.

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

How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.

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.

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

With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.

Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.

The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.

Our sweetest songs are those of saddest thought.

One death apiece is plenty.

I owe everything I am and everything I will ever be to books.

I'm afraid it will never be perfect again. I am indelibly stained. Forever redefined, but blurred around the edges.

[S]cience has itself become a kind of religion.

Mr. Darcy began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.

Hardly anybody in America pays attention to local elections.

All publicity works upon anxiety.

The love of nature is religion, and that religion is poetry; these three things are one thing. This is the unspoken creed of haiku poets.