William Wordsworth

Wordsworth, a muckraking lad, not a bard of Nature 

Or in stature equal to Shakespeare’s flight, 

But methinks he was a keen observer

Of the timeless spirit in motion, which he captured

In thoughts that soared beyond towards infinity,

But always fell short of the magic word to enter the portals

Of the creative Muse brilliant and lovely. 

He chiseled Nature in his mind of many seekings

And clothed her with his whims and half-hearted fantasies.

Why Divinity chose him for the blundered works of life 

Or his trotting verse of sempiternal woes 

No white bloke knew but nevertheless revered his works amiss.

God spoke to him sometimes through songs of a wagtail grey,

But he was so dull-witted that he mocked the bird away.