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.