I like to hear what Wordsworth ate:
suet, chops, potatoes – he was
never well but trod the miles
dejected while his sister baked
pies, bread, raisin cakes;
William walked in sleet and rain, from
violets and the mossy stone where
Coleridge lay, his bowels in knots.
Dorothy’s were wretched too:
flour, ham, beef, lard – how
Wordsworth wrote The Rainbow or The
Singing Bird with bowels that bad
I’ll never understand – I want the
romance of it, though:
pockets crammed with
mutton as they trudged for Letters or composed
The Leech-Gatherer or held a
melancholy talk beneath the wall.
Words, sheep, stones. Stars:
they named the largest Jupiter
no matter where it hung, and looked on
glow-worms, daisies, celandine; on ordinary
distances; as heroes come to cut them free
with swords of English light.