I have been reading and re-reading Wordsworth again. He is one of my favorite poets. As a kind of personal reflection on his poetry, I wrote this poem.
Wordsworth is dear, though not my own;
And yet I tarry in his lines,
and hang upon his living words.
I dare not say that he is mine;
I cannot make a claim that strong,
Nor can I say we are one mind,
And yet, perhaps, he is a friend.
For this I know in ways unsaid
A kindred soul has stirred before,
And wakes in me an earnest love
For life infused with blessed things
And all that is contingency.
