I feel like an asshole, at this point, for not being able to "get" Wordsworth. Every couple of years I read Wordsworth again and there's some very bright, very compassionate, very distinguished-type person who makes beautiful, eloquent arguments in these poems' favour. But I still really just couldn't give less of a shit. I don't know. While I respect Wordsworth, there's a strange personal-type bias I have against the guy. It's a bit more like "I really wouldn't invite this dude to a party at my place." He's a bit dull. Byron, on the other hand. Coleridge. Keats. Mary Shelley probably the most distinguished guest, but only if she left ol' Perce at home. She would provide the sane and sensible, but thoroughly fucked up and entertaining counterpoint to Byron's wanton molestation of other guests, to Keats' mumbling about the beauty of my old 'Oriental' bookcase or whatever, to Coleridge all junked out on the couch.
I'm starting on The Prelude again, though, and it's pretty great. I don't even know why I didn't like it a couple years ago. So things might be changing, after all.
I think I've now accomplished my goal of writing the least insightful review of Lyrical Ballads known to humankind. But there it is.