I met with Wordsworth one embattled night

Where so I thought—his eyes, some rancor bore,

Perhaps of meter, not of words, his gripe…

Or that I just had matched his sonnet score.

We drank the sullied hours until the dawn

And there I learned what broke his noble pen;

It was his lovely Dora—heaven gone—

That razed him to the ranks of mortal men.

Some say he waned by age and pleurisy

But he confirmed it was a shattered heart

That so perplexed the Physics there to see

The growing pain from which he did depart.

He shook my hand and bade me soft farewell,

More of this congress…I shall never tell.