[Campton—Sunday, 16 June 1867]

Sunday morning soft rain continues, the world of men is still but the woods are musical with birds and the river talks steadily just below, the voice of the thrush coming from the distant wood makes vocal silence otherwise the very airs rippling usually around us are stilled, only the dropping rain is heard as it falls from time to time upon the grass.

We cannot help thinking that Wordsworth is yet to be known; that his place though high, must be yet higher in the ranks of the mighty who lead, open and instruct the minds of men. Tennyson’s [sic] recognizes him as his master but the crowds of men are still deaf to his calm music.


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