/lit/, I encountered William Wordsworth at an impressionable

Fuck bitches, get high.

>>8701473
Reread Wordsworth. If you think his poetry is about "moping in rugged landscapes" you completely missed what he was working with.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea;
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

So mopey.

>>8701473
You embrace it

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>I'll tell thee everything I can:
>There's little to relate.
>I saw an aged aged man,
>A-sitting on a gate.
>"Who are you, aged man?" I said,
>"And how is it you live?"
>And his answer trickled through my head,
>Like water through a sieve.

>He said "I look for butterflies
>That sleep among the wheat:
>I make them into mutton-pies,
>And sell them in the street.
>I sell them unto men," he said,
>"Who sail on stormy seas;
>And that's the way I get my bread –
>A trifle, if you please."

>But I was thinking of a plan
>To dye one's whiskers green,
>And always use so large a fan
>That they could not be seen.
>So, having no reply to give
>To what the old man said,
>I cried "Come, tell me how you live!"
>And thumped him on the head.

>His accents mild took up the tale:
>He said "I go my ways,
>And when I find a mountain-rill,
>I set it in a blaze;
>And thence they make a stuff they call
>Rowlands' Macassar-Oil –
>Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
>They give me for my toil."

>But I was thinking of a way
>To feed oneself on batter,
>And so go on from day to day
>Getting a little fatter.
>I shook him well from side to side,
>Until his face was blue:
>"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
>"And what it is you do!"

>He said "I hunt for haddocks' eyes
>Among the heather bright,
>And work them into waistcoat-buttons
>In the silent night.
>And these I do not sell for gold
>Or coin of silvery shine,
>But for a copper halfpenny,
>And that will purchase nine.

>"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
>Or set limed twigs for crabs:
>I sometimes search the grassy knolls
>For wheels of Hansom-cabs.
>And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
>"By which I get my wealth--
>And very gladly will I drink
>Your Honour's noble health."

>I heard him then, for I had just
>Completed my design
>To keep the Menai bridge from rust
>By boiling it in wine.
>I thanked him much for telling me
>The way he got his wealth,
>But chiefly for his wish that he
>Might drink my noble health.

>And now, if e'er by chance I put
>My fingers into glue,
>Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
>Into a left-hand shoe,

>Or if I drop upon my toe
>A very heavy weight,
>I weep, for it reminds me so
>Of that old man I used to know--
>Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow
>Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
>Whose face was very like a crow,
>With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
>Who seemed distracted with his woe,
>Who rocked his body to and fro,
>And muttered mumblingly and low,
>As if his mouth were full of dough,
>Who snorted like a buffalo--
>That summer evening long ago,
>A-sitting on a gate.

>>8701612
I dislike Romanticism in general and am trying to decontaminate myself.

>>8701652
So profound. What's the title? "Meditations while Mowing the Lawn?"

>>8701691
I'm not opposed to springy ballads from time to time, but I've had it up to here with his suburban waffle. He'd the godfather of gardening, nature walks, tourism, and other such banalities.

put yourself in a new impressionable state
and let a new imprint be made.
for only in such a field can ideas be sown
if you want them to bloom in joy.

>>>/sci/

>>8701612
thes

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>>8702070
This. Embrace postmodernism faggot.

Dilute by reading other poets?

>>8701473
When I went through something similar, I read Thomas Hardy to break the sentimental influence, and Ezra Pound to break the formal one. I love Larkin, and Hardy was a decisive influence upon him. I don't love Pound, but sticking with him long enough to understand how and why he "broke the pentameter" is instructive.

All that said, Wordsworth is still a poetic god to me.