A SONNET
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.