Two voices are there: one is of the deep;
 It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody,
 Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
 Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:
 And one is of an old half-witted sheep
 Which bleats articulate monotony,
 And indicates that two and one are three,
 That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep:
 And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times
 Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,
 The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:
 At other times -- good Lord! I'd rather be
 Quite unacquainted with the A.B.C.
 Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.