Nov/Dec 2015 • Vol. XXXVII No. 6 Walking with Poets |

Early Nineteenth-Century English Poetry Walks

1 I remember the rain, a cold coin-colored all-day rain, hard as coins, straight down, June, just outside of Keswick, walking like a tourist in a light raincoat, soaked through, imitating Wordsworth heading north from Grasmere to meet Coleridge heading south, probably in the same rain but in Macks, the bed-and-breakfast no less damp, and breakfast—how many hours ago — a wet porridge and a kipper. And how many shades of green, each of them electric, how many shades of limestone, sandstone, shale, alliterative as hillocks and small mountains: Keats and Brown in this same rain, too, "a sort of grey black mist." "Our road was a winding lane, wooded on each side…full of Foxgloves." Death weather, as far as I can tell, the visible breath like fog, the chill air "fledged with Ash & other beautiful trees," five miles, ten miles, Helvellyn then Skiddaw in an outline of themselves. hard as coins, straight down, June, just outside of Keswick, walking like a tourist in a light

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Stanley Plumly’s most recent book of poems is Orphan Hours (W.W. Norton, 2012). His collection Old Heart won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize and the Paterson Poetry Prize and was a finalist for the National Book Award. In 2015, his book of prose The Immortal Evening won the Truman Capote Prize for Literary Criticism. Plumly is a Distinguished University Professor at the University of Maryland. In 2010 he was elected to membership in the American Academy of Arts and Sciences.

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1 I remember the rain, a cold coin-colored all-day rain, hard as coins, straight down, June, just outside of Keswick, walking like a tourist in a light raincoat, soaked through, […]

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By Stanley Plumly

1 I remember the rain, a cold coin-colored all-day rain, hard as coins, straight down, June, just outside of Keswick, walking like a tourist in a light raincoat, soaked through, […]

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