The Poet Gentle Creature?

… But, O dear Friend!
The Poet, gentle creature as he is,
Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times,
His fits when he is neither sick nor well,
Though no distress be near him but his own
Unmanageable thoughts. The mind itself,
The meditative mind, best pleased, perhaps,
While she, as duteous as the Mother Dove,
Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,
But hath less quiet instincts, goadings on
That drive her as in trouble through the groves.
- Wordsworth, Prelude, Book One


“My Lord, the poet’s unmanageable thoughts are often stress enough. There is a deeper level when deep calls to deep at the thundering of Thy cataracts and Thy waves and billows roll over the poet. This is neither a negative nor a comfortable thing, but merely the tumultuous wellspring of Thy energizing life thrusting up from the hidden sources of creativity within the soul.

That, O dear Friend is precisely the problem. I, like the Lover, have my unruly times. My fits when nothing particular is going on, I am neither sick nor well. I have no significant distress, no real cause but nonetheless my unmanageable thoughts rouse me brooding in the hours of the night. But I do not rest as Mother Dove upon her nest. My less quiet instincts goad me on as though in trouble through elysian groves.

I sense the poison tongued serpent coiled seeking entrance, a vulnerable crack in the walled garden of my mind. O my dear Friend I would take every stray thought captive to Thee my liege Lord, my God and King.”

“Be at rest in the Midnight hours. Shalom aleichem. Shalom aleichem. Be at peace. Be at peace. I will strengthen thee more and more. I will enfold and comfort thee.”