The Poet

"The Poet, gentle creature as he is,

Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;

His fits when he is neither sick nor well,

Though no distress be near him but his own

Unmanageable thoughts : his mind, best please

While she as duteous as the mother dove

Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,

But like the innocent bird, hath on goadings

That drive her as in trouble through the groves;

With me is now such passion, to be blamed

No otherwise that as it lasts too long."

-William Wordsworth, The Prelude