at the age of eighteen, he could write:

_Now while the solemn evening shadows sail,_
_On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale;_
_And fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines_
_Its darkening boughs...._

Which really is rather splendid for a boy. And he could immediately follow
that, speaking of a family of swans, with:

_While tender cares and mild domestic loves_
_With furtive watch pursue her as she moves,_
_The female with a meeker charm succeeds...._

Wordsworth richly atoned for his unconscious farcicalness by a multitude
of single lines that, in their pregnant sublimity, attend the
Wordsworthian like a shadow throughout his life, warning him continually
when he is in danger of making a fool of himself. Thus, whenever through
mere idleness I begin to waste the irrecoverable moments of eternity, I
always think of that masterly phrase (from, I think, the "Prelude," but I
will not be sure):

_Unprofitably travelling towards the grave._

This line is a most convenient and effective stone to throw at one's
languid friends. Finally let me hail Mr. Nowell Smith as a benefactor.