For Wordsworth:

My soul comprehends beauty passing fair,
Fills with contentment at the harmony of a scene,
Cannot but yield upon spying the craft of the artisan,
Yet crumbles when called to create.
Woe to the songbird that has no muse,
Bereft of poetry must sit there mute,
Lacking all power to master the base elements,
Which stubbornly refuse to coalesce.
Perception is not a finer art,
Conferring wisdom upon us for our troubles.
We cannot make what we have not held
And our delight falls wasted after the flood.