After having spent an hour or so with WORDSWORTH'S sonnets I found my head
so full of his sonorous adjuratory music that when in the middle of the
night I woke as usual--from three to four is the worst time--my wooing of
reluctant sleep took on a new fashion, and instead of repeating verses I
made them. But I only once proceeded farther than the first line. Anybody
who finds pleasure in poetic pains may add the other thirteen; to me such a
task would savour of bad luck. Here, however, are some of my brave
Rydalesque beginnings, with titles:--
_To the ASSISTANT CONTROLLER of FOOD, wishing him success._