For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore, am I still lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear, —both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognized nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.

— William Wordsworth

Friend is the one who shows the way and walks a piece of road with us

— William Wordsworth

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

— William Wordsworth

Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

— William Wordsworth

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

— William Wordsworth

Habit rules the unreflecting herd.

— William Wordsworth

Hence, in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

— William Wordsworth

Here must thou be, O man, Strength to thyself — no helper hast thou here —Here deepest thou thy individual state:No other can divide with thee this work, No secondary hand can intervene To fashion this ability. 'Tis thine, The prime and vital principle is thine In the recesses of thy nature, far From any reach of outward fellowship, Else 'tis not thine at all.

— William Wordsworth

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

— William Wordsworth

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.

— William Wordsworth