To Wordsworth
By John Clare
Wordsworth I love, his books are like the fields, Not filled with flowers, but works of human kind; The pleasant weed a fragrant pleasure yields, The briar and broomwood shaken by the wind, The thorn and bramble o'er the water shoot A finer flower than gardens e'er gave birth, The aged huntsman grubbing up the root-- I love them all as tenants of the earth: Where genius is, there often die the seeds; What critics throw away I love the more; I love to stoop and look among the weeds, To find a flower I never knew before; Wordsworth, go on--a greater poet be; Merit will live, though parties disagree!
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"Wordsworth I love, his books are like the fields,..."
Exploring the themes of classic, John Clare delivers a powerful performance in "To Wordsworth"... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...