Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”


There is a bit of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ influence here.  I would not write really good sprung rhythm until later, but there is an exuberance in this celebration of the coming of spring that asked some lightening of the strict iambic pentameter of the traditional sonnet.  I think it works.  See what you think.




Today is a day for praising the sun in the meadow

And the high-wind, the sky-wind, that’s blown from snown peaks to our faces;

A day for the swift-gliding races of cloud-cast shadow,

For leaf-wing, bird, all things that move to be put through their paces.

A day for the laughing of maidens, the giving of graces;

A day for the splashing of singing-stream, rock-tumble water

And the blooming of sweet mountain laurel in seldom seen places.

A day for hot sun in the desert to shine even hotter;

A day for clay cliffs to be shaped by the wind-handed Potter.

Today is a day for the thunder and lightning to battle

And roar on high passes until the great stone-boulders totter

And send down the swift –ending rain while the storm windows rattle.

It’s a day for singing, for telling the oft-told story,

For praising the ancient, twy-natured enfleshment of Glory.


Remember: for more poetry like this, go to and order Stars Through the Clouds!  Also look for Reflections from Plato’s Cave, Williams’ newest book from Lantern Hollow Press: Evangelical essays in pursuit of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty.

Donald T. Williams, PhD


About gandalf30598

Theologian, philosopher, poet, and critic; minister of the Gospel who makes his living by teaching medieval and renaissance literature; dual citizen of Narnia and Middle Earth.

Posted on February 20, 2012, in Donald Williams, Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. Nice. Your sonnet created the scent rain and sunshine. Thank you for sharing!

  2. I enjoy how this more organic sonnet sets the feeling of the inadequacy of its own words. The glories of creation are impossible to sequester inside something as limited as human speech. But you’ve managed to get at least as close as Robert Frost ever did. (Just wondering…What is “twy,” as in “twy-natured?”)

  3. [looks down, scuffs foot, and says, “Pshaw!”]

    Twy = two–as in the hypostatic union (q.v.).

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