Upon Looking at Wordsworth's Grave
Rests below this spotless green here—
a poet in his churchyard own;
the mark and prestige of Grasmere,
is William Wordsworth, 'neath the stone:
who joyed in nature's every wake
and roamed about its serene chest;
on landforms of the district Lake,
where days of childhood, smiled he best.
The grace from his eight planted Yew trees,
watch on them for their munity.
He shares the strewment laid in peace,
with Mary who, his consort be.
Here sleeps, the birther of a stage--
of bliss in simpleness who taught;
by Poetry's romantic age-
his conceits now, emend one's thought.
Who found in solitude, earth's love:
through plains and valleys, ponds and birds;
whose living stood in cottage Dove,
where writ he many, renowned words;
whose life, his children's losses gave,
and himself, with the stabbing cold,
of greatness, although in plain grave
his blithe, sorrow and visions hold.
A Note from the Poet: This is a poem that I had written after looking at a photo of William Wordsworth's grave. The churchyard where he is buried was very dear to him and he had planted eight Yew trees on its yard. With him, is buried his wife, Mary. His son, Thomas died at the age of six and his daughter Catherine at the age of three. While taking a walk one cold evening, Wordsworth was victimized by an acute wind which ultimately resulted in his demise. Although the grave isn't so full of embellishments, yet, this very grave houses one of the greatest poet mankind has ever seen.
Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness.
