15.07.2007, 13:45
To Wordsworth
There have been poets that in verse display
The elemental forms of human passion:
Poets have been, to whom the fickle fashions
And all the wilful humours of the day
Have furnish’d matter for a polish’d lay:
And many are the smooth elaborate tribe
Who, emulous of thee, the shape describe,
And fain would every shifting hue portray
Of restless Nature. But, thou mighty Seer!
‘T is thine to celebrate the thoughts that make
The life of souls, the truths for whose sweet sake
We to ourselves and to our God are dear.
Of Nature’s inner shrine thou art the priest,
Where most she works when we perceive her least.
There have been poets that in verse display
The elemental forms of human passion:
Poets have been, to whom the fickle fashions
And all the wilful humours of the day
Have furnish’d matter for a polish’d lay:
And many are the smooth elaborate tribe
Who, emulous of thee, the shape describe,
And fain would every shifting hue portray
Of restless Nature. But, thou mighty Seer!
‘T is thine to celebrate the thoughts that make
The life of souls, the truths for whose sweet sake
We to ourselves and to our God are dear.
Of Nature’s inner shrine thou art the priest,
Where most she works when we perceive her least.