Wordsworth's Storms

                    Swollen hands, tired eyes,                            matted beard;                    stories spent, disordered desk,                            small quarto;                    he thinks himself a poet;                    tempered lines precede                            a final flicker                    of force: every poem is                            an agon.

In the twilight the tempests swell,a protracted foreshadowing.In umbrageous forests I dwell,and with slanted scrawls I'm moaning:

    "My spartan fife blew untroubled    Notes through the drizzle, now so plain,    This giddy prospect was foretold,    That those with turbulence and pain

    "Will think triumphant. I've weathered blasts,    Depressing hours against this force,    I know of the region's dark. When it's    Time for the surge to cease, my horse will

"Regain his cheer; birds will tarryIn comfort; so will I retrimThe crows' nests, ride my ferryOf splintered oak and sing my hymn

"To shadowy genius unemployed:Recall the stream's silent words, passedTo a form no storm could've destroyed.I impress my foot forward in mud."

                    Pressured by the sight of stars, the                            old earthen hump                    on the horizon glows                            in hues of grey,                    A mystery of power pent                            up that covers                    The earth, in botched songs, in stillness                            and in verdure.                    An aching back straightened, a thumb,                            cracked and black'ning,                    runs over rough calfskin binding,                            extracting lines:                    "For this singular mind, every day                            was a day of storms."