Of Wordsworth, I may say only  this:



Many a time have I, with countenance

mild and serene, beheld Nature in her

greatest forms. I have found flower and

field quietly beautiful in its mood.

Embraced many a tree with arms 

outstretched....



But never, upon my furthest recollection,

have I ever made love to one.

It would be a woody pencil to

penetrate the knobby womb of

Good Mother Oak.

Why, pray tell, doth the Willow weep?

Was she thusly raped by some mad hairy

poet, running naked in the bush.

Oh, to dangle by the lonely stream!

To grope the hedgewood and the thistle!



Not, that in his fevered passion for Nature, 

would he move to bestiality. 

And yet... many a good Brit (not to mention 

a Scott or too) hath ta'en to his bed

a good sheep for fleecing.

Strong drink and gap-toothed old nags

are movement enough for some loins to 

greener pastures. And true, the bleat of

a yew is far sweeter than the bitch of a nag.



But I cannot, within good conscience,

say that William is a sheep man.

Many a man would do with leg and rump,

while others, the far more buxom features.

With this thought...

Wordsworth, wearing all of Nature's best

and worst about him, chasing a squirrel.

To, in fact, impart upon it his throbbing

eloquence and great flapping sack of 

existential virility.