Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought, And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion.

-Wordsworth,William
  'Influenceof NaturalObjects', l.1^4 (publishedinTheFriend 28 Dec1809).

   I shook the habit off Entirely and for ever, and again In Nature's presence stood, as now I stand, A sensitive being, a creative soul.

-Wordsworth,William
^1805  The Prelude, bk.12, l.204^7 (published1850).

  Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness.We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

-Wordsworth,William
  'Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour', complete poem (published1807).

Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up Fostered alike by beauty and by fear.

-Wordsworth,William
^1805  The Prelude, bk.1, l.301^2 (published1850).

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride. Of him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough along the mountainside: By our own spirits are we deified. We poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof comes in the end despondencyand madness.

-Wordsworth,William
  Of the poetThomas Chatterton, who committed suicide at the age of17.'Resolution and Independence', stanza 7 (published1807).

Earth hath not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

-Wordsworth,William
  Of London.'Composed uponWestminster Bridge', complete poem. (Published1807).

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his wayattended; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

-Wordsworth,William
c.1802^1803  'Ode. Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood', stanza 5 (published1807).

What soul was his, when, from the naked top Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun Rise up, and bathe the world in light! He lookedö Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay Beneath him:öFar and wide the clouds were touched, And in their silent faces he could read Unutterable love.

-Wordsworth,William
  'The Excursion', bk.1, l.198^205.

When you are old and greyand full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly how Love fled And paced among the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

-Yeats,W(illiam) B(utler)
  'WhenYou Are Old', complete poem. Collected in The Rose (1893).

An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress.

-Yeats,W(illiam) B(utler)
  'Sailing to Byzantium', stanza 8. Collected in TheTower (1928).