  TWO voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old, half-witted sheep, Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep; And, Wordsworth, both are thine. At certain times Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst; At other times—good Lord! I’d rather be Quite unacquainted with the A B C, Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst. J. K. Stephen. |
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