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  1. I’ve got 2 old poems (2010) I had sent to the chop shop but then decided to “resuscitate” as a unit. Both allude to Wordsworth, and the second actually concludes in a pastiche of his verse. I’ll start with the first. I know this is risky because from what I recall you execrate Wordsworth and loathe pathetic fallacies. Nevertheless, anything redeeming here? Ready for the worse, so feel free to clear cut. No pain, no gain. Thanks.

    Wordsworth Unchained

    When the mind is gone the earth takes up
    So many times it comforts and consoles,
    In fields of rye or just alone as it did
    Without deeds, as the Indian saw, in old
    Growth pine along the coast or roaming west
    To temperate trees—Maple, Oak, Elm, Birch.
    What enthralling death a frost can paint
    Enthralling their autumnal leaves with gold
    That we should age as gracefully from Spring.

    When the mind is back soul forgot, a cypress
    Altar dares to thrive–commerce, price and roads invade—
    The vanishing that vanishes self vanishes most
    The more we cut, the more we pay to find
    What was had for just a walk, it would seem
    Every tree is due in thirty years, surveyed,
    Cleared—that’s the thanks the forest gets,
    From the mind that’s given back, until, we,
    Outbid, the mind is gone for good.

    Or so went my reason, a steady oaken bough
    Among the sappy pulp, teaching me to be,
    Giving back the mind that moderns took
    But not before—thank God—I found serenity
    (As I had sat a hundred times before)
    What I owe to its flourishing, that oak
    I was of countless acorn tips
    Before the moderns came to slay me back
    Again, a gnarled and lichen shambles
    Yet rage enough for prophecy to sprout!


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