Classic Poem

About what sort of thing
Do you want me to sing?
And at what sort of times
Indite you rhymes?
Until four in the day
We are reading away;
And then after four
It would be but a bore,
For at meal-times I'm talking,
As also when walking,
To myself or to Todo;
So that time will no do,
For as now the world goes
My talk's always prose: —
Then for subjects — " Why, twenty, —
Lakes, mountains in plenty!"
Ullswater or Derwent lake
Would a long journey take;
And even Thirl-mere
Is not over near;
Grasmere and Rydal
We can walk to, though idle
But for them I must trouble you
To refer to W. W.
Who you know very well
Of your own pretty sell'
Has wroot all can be wroot, and said all can be said
Of Grasmere lake-foot, or of Grasmere lake-head.
So in wrath and great sorrow
And hopes that tomorrow
Will bring me a letter
From my obstinate debtor,
Which you are as plain's can be,
I remain A. H. C. —
(You ungrateful wretch, —
When I sent you such a pretty sketch!)