Wandered I, as thy Wordsworth cloud,
soaring high, aloof and proud,
caressing soft yon hills bathed mist,
like as Angel's lips, whispering kist,
kindling imaginations own puissance,
to fire dawns new sprung naissance,
where Orient's glow tempers so the eye,
inviting axe and sword, obsolescent lie,
thus, rhetorics harsh tongue's wilful sway,
encased, tomb like in unyielding clay,
now, second Spring in new found infancy,
unknown to darkened corridors delinquency,
whence once again with naive trusting hand,
stroll Elysian Fields soft strewn strand,
open eyed espy rainbow's colour unfold,
emotional currency worth more than gold.