If the Romantic poet
William Wordsworth (1770-1850) were still alive today, he'd be turning 234 years old now.
Whoa. I'm not sure if I want to see a great poet that old. It'd be too much for him.
Wordsworth, what an appropriate name for a meritable author. This poet laureate was the first English poet whose work I came to know and learned to appreciate, as I was travelling in his town, the picturesque
Grasmere.
To toast the nature-loving poet, allow me to share this poem that is quite timely for now:
Written in Early Spring
I HEARD a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
Their thoughts I cannot measure,
But the least motion which they made
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from Heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
