Enough, however, has been said about these critics, for the present, at least. Wordsworth’s was a struggle to get for poetry, once more, a true utterance; to annihilate the old dead, mechanical form which it had for the most part assumed, from the time of Pope downwards to him; for although Burns and Cowper had sounded the first trumpet in this morning of the resurrection, it was reserved for Wordsworth to awake the dead, and infuse into them a new and living soul. During the residence of the poet at Grasmere, his sister kept a diary of the proceedings of their little household, which, with Wordsworth’s letters, are the chief biographical records of this period, respecting the poet himself. The following extracts will give some idea of the calm and beautiful life which they led together:-- “As we were going along, we were stopped at once, at the distance, perhaps of fifty yards from our favourite birch-tree; it was yielding to the gust of wind, with all its tender twigs; the sun shone upon it, and it glanced in the wind like a flying sunshiny shower; it was a tree in shape, with a stem and branches, but it was like a spirit of water.... When we were in the woods before Gowbarrow Park, we saw a few _daffodils_ close to the water-side.... As we went along there were more, and yet more; and at last, under the boughs of the trees, we saw there was a long belt of them along the shore. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about them; some rested their heads on these stones, as on a pillow; the rest tossed, and reeled, and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, they looked so gay and glancing.” The poet was frequently indebted to this beautiful sister for the _material_ of his poems; and many of the minor pieces are a musical transformation of her descriptions of natural scenery, and the feelings with which she beheld it. The poem of “The Beggars” is an instance of this; and if the reader will peruse “The Daffodils,” and compare it with Miss Wordsworth’s description of these fair flowers, as quoted above, he will perhaps discover how much the poet is indebted to her, in this instance also. Here is the poem. “I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of _golden daffodils_, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, _Fluttering and dancing in the breeze_. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch’d in never ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but feel gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought.