I wish I had met the crippled Pope,
Pondered on wisdom in solitude,
Would have asked what changed his mind,
And made him waste life in a royal court.
Would have also met the lady whose lock,
Was neatly 'raped' by a knightly mock,
Would have come to know why the poet,
Made much ado over a woman's shock.
I would love to go to the countrysides,
In search of Wordsworth's Lucy Gray,
By the lakeside we would have met and talked,
About daffodils and other things besides.
In the country churchyard of Thomas Gray,
Where the humble of the land have become clay,
I wish even I could watch the plough man go,
Leaving me and dusk to talk to the gray.