Wordsworth

This is the day that he remembers,

Standing on the precipice of yesterday,

Gazing out towards the mooring of a ship marked tomorrow,

Laden with dreams disguised for her.

Old Wordsworth, as he seems to himself now,

Looks across at young William

In reflection of the ancient Wye

With Dorothy at his side, sweet sister,

He calls,

And instructs her eyes to see with the mind,

With fullness,

What he sees-

The rolling sylvan hills

Encountering stately spires of birch and maple,

Distinguished apart in shape and color,

Growing closer to touch the more immensely they grow

Out of each significant miniscule bud of a branch.

All this blends together in sight and smells

Of woods, moist earth, and hanging dew

With his meager expectations

That excite his memory

And dull his successive visits.

What he sees-

The opportunity he has lost

That might be regained and cherished anew

Within that other soul

Standing so near,

So close to touch,

So clean a slate to be filled with experience.