ON WORDSWORTH
HE lived amidst th' untrodden ways
To Rydal Lake that lead;
A bard whom there was none to praise
And very few to read.
Behind a cloud his mystic sense,
Deep hidden, who can spy?
Bright as the night when not a star
Is shining in the sky.
Unread his works—his “Milk White Doe"
With dust is dark and dim;
It's still in Longmans' shop, and oh!
The difference to him.
Anonymous.