Wordsworth I Love, His Books Are Like The Fields, Not Filled With Flowers, But Works Of Human Kind; The Pleasant Weed A Fragrant Pleasure Yields, The Briar And Broomwood Shaken By The Wind, The Thorn And Bramble O'Er The Water Shoot A Finer Flower Than Gardens E'Er Gave Birth, The Aged Huntsman Grubbing Up The Root-- I Love Them All As Tenants Of The Earth: Where Genius Is, There Often Die The Seeds; What Critics Throw Away I Love The More; I Love To Stoop And Look Among The Weeds, To Find A Flower I Never Knew Before; Wordsworth, Go On--A Greater Poet Be; Merit Will Live, Though Parties Disagree!