Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works
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MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS, 1842

I

          'A POET'!--He hath put his heart to school,
          Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
          Which Art hath lodged within his hand--must laugh
          By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
          Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
          And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
          In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
          Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
          How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
          Because the lovely little flower is free                    10
          Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
          And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
          Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
          But from its 'own' divine vitality.


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