Reading Wordsworth

I’d love to read some Wordsworth,
And of Coleridge, pages not a few.
With subtle inference and tone,
Where spirits soar, in unseen azure sky.
While I sit here, with sore clipped wing,
Seeing only line by line, upon the page,
Never knowing, what’s between.

So I thought I’d try some Shakespeare,
They say, we all should try the ‘bard’.
A rollicking ballad, with blood tipped sword,
Swept along, at break neck speed.
But, unsure of word, or thought thus spake,
This mangle of muddy medieval metaphor,
Has surely got me beat.

Now bloodied, but unbowed,
My poetic quest resumed.
There must be time, or genre, just for me.
One, through who’s words, earth’s beauty, I can see.
Through book shops all, and vaulted libraries tall, I sought,
Then, on that fateful day, the magic words, flew fast and loose,
At last, I’m one, with timeless, Dr. Zeus.

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