Wordsworth possessed every attribute necessary to the descriptive
poet,--subtle powers of observation, ears delicately tuned to seize the
very shadow of sound, and a diction of copious strength suggestive beyond
the limits of ordinary expression. Yet purely descriptive poetry he
scorned. "He expatiated much to me one day," writes Mr. Aubrey de Vere,
"as we walked among the hills above Grasmere, on the mode in which Nature
had been described by one of the most justly popular of England's modern
poets--one for whom he preserved a high and affectionate respect
[evidently Sir Walter Scott]. 'He took pains,' Wordsworth said; 'he went
out with his pencil and note-book, and jotted down whatever struck him
most--a river rippling over the sands, a ruined tower on a rock above it,
a promontory, and a mountain-ash waving its red berries. He went home
and wove the whole together into a poetical description.' After a pause,
Wordsworth resumed, with a flashing eye and impassioned voice; 'But
Nature does not permit an inventory to be made of her charms! He should
have left his pencil and note-book at home, fixed his eye as he walked
with a reverent attention on all that surrounded him, and taken all into
a heart that could understand and enjoy. Then, after several days had
passed by, he should have interrogated his memory as to the scene. He
would have discovered that while much of what he had admired was
preserved to him, much was also most wisely obliterated; that which
remained--the picture surviving in his mind--would have presented the
ideal and essential truth of the scene, and done so in a large part by
discarding much which, though in itself striking, was not characteristic.
In every scene many of the most brilliant details are but accidental; a
true eye for Nature does not note them, or at least does not dwell on
them.'"

The student should learn to compare the descriptive methods of Coleridge
and Wordsworth. See especially Lowell's note quoted on pp. 197-198; also