A Sonnet

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.