Chapter 5 No.5

Meantime, how much I loved him,

I find out now I've lost him.

I who cared not if I moved him,

Who could so carelessly accost him,

Henceforth never shall get free

Of his ghostly company,

His eyes that just a little wink

As deep I go into the merit

Of this and that distinguished spirit-

His cheeks' raised color, soon to sink,

As long I dwell on some stupendous

And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)

Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous

Demoniaco-seraphic

Penman's latest piece of graphic.

22 Nay, my very wrist grows warm

With his dragging weight of arm.

E'en so, swimmingly appears,

Through one's after-supper musings,

Some lost lady of old years

With her beauteous vain endeavor

And goodness unrepaid as ever;

The face, accustomed to refusings,

We, puppies that we were.... Oh never

Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled

Being aught like false, forsooth, to?

Telling aught but honest truth to?

What a sin, had we centupled

Its possessor's grace and sweetness!

No! she heard in its completeness

Truth, for truth's a weighty matter,

And truth, at issue, we can't flatter!

Well, 'tis done with; she's exempt

From damning us thro' such a sally;

And so she glides, as down a valley,

Taking up with her contempt,

Past our reach; and in, the flowers

Shut her unregarded hours.

Rydal Mount, the Home of Wordsworth