I know not how it is, but when I hear
The name of Wordsworth it is as a spell
That wakes—as if the poet's self were near-
A flood of kindred feeling. And I dwell
With a rapt earnestness, and love, and awe
Upon the life and spirit of him whose name
Is knit to all a placid heart can draw
From out of Nature, and the sweet acclaim
Of all her many tones that breathe and live
For the rapt poet only. I would give
A lifetime's earnings if I could make mine,
In all its pure and simple healthiness,
The lore of him of Rydal, and possess
'The vision and the faculty divine.'