When he
was young he wrote twenty
Or
twenty two very good poems.
The
rest of his career was spent
In
writing them over. They grew tired
And
coarse. Towards the end
The
lovely “Tyrhennian Light”
Had
become a recipe
For a
dust and jalapeƱo omelet.
As he
was dying, Wordsworth’s ghost
Dropped
by to say “It doesn’t count
If you
do it deliberately.”
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