Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet’s Residence (III). William Wordsworth – 1803.

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Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow
Was wreathed - "The Vision" tells us how
        With holly spray,
He faultered, drifted to and fro,
        And passed away.

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
        In social grief
Indulged as if it were a wrong
        To seek relief.

But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
And prompt to welcome every gleam
        Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid Stream
        Breathe hopeful air.

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right
        His course was true,
When Wisdom prospered in his sight
        And virtue grew.

Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth's season bland,
When side by side, his Book in hand,
        We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command
        Of each sweet Lay.

How oft inspired must he have trod
These pathways, yon far-stretching road!
There lurks his home; in that Abode,
        With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly-pensive mood,
        The Rustic sate.

Proud thoughts that Image overawes,
Before it humbly let us pause,
And ask of Nature, from what cause
        And by what rules
She trained her Burns to win applause
        That shames the Schools.

Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Are felt the flashes of his pen;
He rules mid winter snows, and when
        Bees fill their hives;
Deep in the general heart of men
        His power survives.

What need of fields in some far clime
Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
        From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time
        Folds up his wings?

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
        With vain endeavour,
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven,
        Effaced for ever.

But why to Him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share
        With all that live?
The best of what we do and are,
        Just God, forgive!

Poet's Corner

Like so many, my first contact with poetry was at school. In my teens I tried my hand at poetry and found that I rather enjoyed it. As a musician, poetry enabled me to write songs - really cool to be a teenager and strumming out your own songs (badly in my case) on the guitar. I decided to build this site alongside a corresponding YouTube channel (Poets' Corner) and include both a narrated version of each poem along with the printed version. Having always loved (and many times visited) The Lake District in northwest England it seemed only right to start with Wiliam Wordsworth and, once I've created a significant body of his work, I'll start working on other poets.

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