Thinking about Coleridge and poetry, whilst climbing Loughrigg ...

Reading Richard Holmes' wonderful biography of Coleridge, I often imagined the poet - I saw him, striding across the wild fells, scrawling powerful words into his notebooks, his mind a flaming meteor - high above the narrow world, he could seek out noble truths - 

I am still reading the biography - I am half way through the second volume - I don't want the book to end - when I turn round in my chair, I half expect to see, say, Charles Lamb, astounded by my I Phone - he's holding a bumper of brandy - 

What is this he's saying? - he's describing Coleridge, reciting his poetry - his face when he repeats his verse hath its ancient glory, an Archangel a little damaged - 

While we were climbing Loughrigg, we stood by a dry stone wall, and looked down at Lake Windermere - I thought of my own poems, and of those written by friends - 

I stared at the worn, mossy, stones - a sudden hope stirred within me - perhaps I, too, could describe a truth, or even a small part of a truth -