While Reading Wordsworth

Traveling through all the night
A path before indigo valleys
Of mind, memory and the soul
And in this writer’s words
I feel kinship
And the unspooled travels
Like my own.

Sweet sadness
And sense in the senseless realm of death
My hope, the prints of a former man
Who calls to me in the dark woods.

Alike in speech and mind
And it would have been well to speak
To one who welcomed friendship
In this absent age
Yet I am here and he is not
Besides fine portraiture
Long gone before my time
And almost frightening
How to me
He lives still
Happy I hope
With his loves
And knowing that he sat or sits
Under the same rocks, trees and streams.

By J.W.H. Hobbs

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