He to whose dream did rhythmic measures
        throng,
Whose walks were tuneful (so the shepherds tell),—
Was it not strange he lipped a polished shell,
And sang for scholar’s ear the saddest song?
He spoke his native mountains’ rugged tongue;
The brook for him leapt boisterous in the dell;
The stately hollows of yon scarry Fell
For him their wildest echoes did prolong.
Unchanged the scene, and still the sycamore
Flutters its seed-wings to the Poet’s door,
But those gay flowers, whose garden home he planned,
Have strayed abroad to please the wand’rer’s hand:
How like himself, the Muse’s delicate child,
Whose life was of the wind, rejoicing to be wild!

(Sonnets at the English Lakes, p. 38)