Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect — William Wordsworth
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. — William Wordsworth
And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore. — William Wordsworth
Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song. — William Wordsworth
To be a Prodigal’s favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser’s pensioner,-behold our lot! — William Wordsworth