THE GENIUS OF WORDSWORTH
Mountain high and daffodil, the misty and the clear.
The lake of beauty, that is Windermere.
Windermere and Wordsworth, ecstatic poetry to the core,
Ullswater's famous daffodils, clean and fresh and more.
The wandering of the mountain sheep on yonder hill to graze.
The relaxation to be had as if still in Wordsworth days.
Although two hundred years have passed
Since in the Summer house he sat
To compose a masterpiece of poetry or prose,
It was indeed just that.
As clouds drift by in solitude, his immortality I do praise,
For such a genius to have his words read out aloud,
Must have been a glorious tribute in those days.
As I write these words one can only surmise,
Perhaps the price he paid in his solitude,
Was one for being so wise.
His solace was his sister, to whom he could confide,
The one he could trust, the one he knew never lied.
The loyalty of Dorothy was one without compare.
A companionship that a brother and sister don't normally share.
It was a love of beauty, the countryside, the language,
The sheer comprehension of their insight
Into humanity's sandwich.
The bread of life, the human toll,
Which in those days was nearly always the younger soul.
For which is why, and when and where, we know not,
Was it fair? One thing we do know for sure,
Is that William and Dorothy had a rare human gift,
The gift of imagination, yellow in spring,
The beauty they recognised flows in abundance,
Along with the butterfly and the birds that sing.
Poetry in motion, there can be no other words,
Except for Shelley, Keats, Byron, and Coleridge,
Lakeland poets all, but the one that gives me the
Greatest pleasure, sits in my book case in the hall.
FIRST DAY OF SPRING TODAY REPOST WRITTEN IN 2004
See more poems by listener
View this poem
Comment on this poem