Two voices are there: one is of the deep; <br />It learns the storm cloud's thunderous melody, <br />Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, <br />Now birdlike pipes, now closes soft in sleep; <br />And one is of an old half-witted sheep <br />Who bleats articulate monotony, <br />And indicates that two and one are three, <br />That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep: <br />And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times, <br />Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes <br />The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst; <br />At other times--good Lord! I'd rather be <br />Quite unacquainted with the A, B, C, <br />Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.<br /><br />James Kenneth Stephen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wordsworth-4/
