Life and Existence

For those of us who believe in physics, the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.

Life is the desert, life the solitude;

To know the world, not love her, is thy point,

An undevout astronomer is mad.

At thirty a man suspects himself a fool;

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

Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

A simple child, dear brother Jim,

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

She seemed a thing that could not feel

She lived unknown, and few could know

Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;

We poets in our youth begin in gladness;

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,

All things have second birth;

All things have second birth;

A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,

But for those obstinate questionings

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Child is father of the Man.

A sense sublime

On that best portion of a good man’s life,

For oft, when on my couch I lie

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,