It seems to me sometimes that poetry is composed not only by lines that start and end within the poetic compasses of man’s pen, but even a prose drenched in the sweetness of feelings can form wonderful poetry. Even the daily humdrum life can be subject enough that can suffice the poetic needs of a creative mind.
It is therefore a little effort rather a little delving or dwelling in the aspects of a subject, defamiliarising it a bit, perhaps reflecting on it a while and there comes the lines strung in the rhythms of a beautiful poem. It might seem a bit obscure though, I tend to write lines that tell simple thoughs somewhat poetic in composition. Let me try to write something of my own.
“The leaves that sway in endless symphony,
And weave the tune of joy,
The rhythm of life in it to be found,
Times endless mysteries in a simple sway bound,
Where tales from childhood unfurl so true,
and fairy-tales exist in a wonder hue…”
So I put an effort to pen down a somewhat simple poem that I used to picture nature amidst the truth of a gentle childhood belief. Wordsworth, a master in writing poems under the plethora of nature’s endless forms nonetheless had gifted the readers with such rich and splendid poetic vocabulary under the garb of nature’s beauty.In fact Nature had played an important part in the poetry of the Romantic Age in English Literature.