For we are born in other’s pain, and perish in our own.
All things by immortal power. Near of far, to each other linked are, that thou canst not stir a flower without troubling of a star.
Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others pain And perish in our own.
Know you what it is to be a child? It is to be something very different from the man of to-day. It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief; it is to be so little that the elves can reach to whisper in your ear; it is to turn pumpkins into coaches, and mice into horses, lowness into loftiness, and nothing into everything, for each child has its fairy godmother in its own soul; it is to live in a nutshell and to count yourself the king of infinite space; it is To see a world in a grain of sand, And a Heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour; it is to know not as yet that you are under sentence of life, nor petition that it be commuted into death.
Topics: Time, Imagination
- Alexander Pope English Poet
- Coventry Patmore English Poet
- John Dryden English Poet
- G. K. Chesterton English Journalist
- William Wordsworth English Poet
- John Masefield English Poet
- Hartley Coleridge English Writer
- Andrew Marvell English Metaphysical Poet
- Edmund Spenser English Poet
- Martin Farquhar Tupper English Poet