An Ode

Is there anything more wroth
Or wickeder than Wordsworth?
What we have here is the English language splayed
And fopped about hundreds of pages fulfilled
With his vain illusions, less eloquent than prose --
And little more at that -- But the rhymes!
-- But the babbling brooks -- those quiet nooks!
And in an age of such moment, that man
Could content himself of trees and beaks
And those grass-hoppers that grate on
Through the whole, wide container of the earth,
A kind of peace...

Spirit of the evening
And quiet strolls before car, bus, train,
Leisured contemplator, conversation
Of life, nature's purple royalty, inventor of a verse
Splendid as Appalachian cataracts, but calm,
And the eddies of lakes, and the slight whorls
Of a skiff's prow dipping into the brine:

I'll forgive you, Wordsworth, voluminous,
Brimming, if, when so many poets entice
With their heavy liquored draught
Of wine's honeyed sweetness,
You bring the dilution of good, pure springs
To our ravening banquet.