How Willam Wordsworth feels
When he says “I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills”
Yet I wonder, did he fly all the years round?
And shed rain between the mountain's rill
Or he is lost in the sky?
Flying while he cannot hold still
To the place that the mountains lie
Or he might have shed tears
Dancing, between the groves
Reaching where the ocean appears
Beneath the flying doves
Yet, if William does say:
“The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye”
Then he might live between the clouds, painted in ruby wine