What a contrast to Wordsworth, who always looked back to his youth as freshly arrived from heaven, and wished to bind maturity and age to it by conscious piety. He had been born free; Thomas achieved freedom at the cost of disillusionment; yet it was part of his latter-day riches that he had been so deceived long ago. Better so, than to have been without fire, than to have been dull, torpid and mean. Yes, yes; but not better than to have been a creative artist, thrilling and anguishing about work that was more important than the workman. But with freedom came the inspired moods at last, and prose gave way to poetry. This wanderer's vision had much in common with Ledwidge's vivid aptness of particular images and Clare's limpid sight.
"While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough
With spangles of the morning's storm drop down
Because the starling shakes it."
"The swift with wings and tail as sharp and narrow
As if the bow had flown off with the arrow."
"Like the touch of rain she was
On a man's flesh and hair and eyes."
"November's earth is dirty . . .
And the prettiest things on the ground are the paths
With morning and evening hobnails dinted,
With foot and wing-tip overprinted
Or separately charactered
Of little beast and little bird."
Such things must always make a poet supremely happy at whatever stage of life they may be written. And where there is simple joy, playfulness and tenderness will find room.
