Poetic Inspiration

While thinking about my bloggish nom-de-plume, I noticed the following small coincidence. I think that I must have been influenced by some psychic phenomena. Please note the significance of the poets William WORDsworth and Oliver GoldSMITH. Incredible ! I am quite happy to accept this remarkable synchronicity since I have a great respect for both men. Wordsworth was a great creator of sonnets and poems which dwelt on Nature, Love and other relationships. Anyone who has read his poetry must have been moved by his poem about Daffodils, "I wandered lonely as a cloud".

Goldsmith was a master of the Epigram and a poetic critic of social inequalities, such as the death of rural villages caused by the Inclusion Acts of the 18th and 19th Centuries. Probably my favourite of his works is "The Deserted Village. A Poem", probably because I can relate to his creation, the village schoolmaster. As I re-read it, I cringe a little as I feel some of his comments striking a little close to home, especially when I remember my early days of teaching. I'll have to pretend that his more positive, appreciative passages are more relevant to my village work. This verse shows a slightly different feeling for educators than those expressed by G.B.S.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declar'd how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too:
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill
For ev'n though vanquish'd, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics rang'd around;
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.