"Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils."
"It may be safely affirmed that there neither is, nor can be, any essential difference between the language of prose and metrical composition.... They both speak by and to the same organs; the bodies in which both of them are clothed may be said to be of the same substance, their affections are kindred, and almost identical, not necessarily differing even in degree; Poetry sheds no tears "such as Angels weep," but natural and human tears; she can boast of no celestial ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from those of prose; the same human blood circulates through the veins of them both."
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Source: 'She was a phantom of delight' (1807)
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"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."