No nightingale did ever chant...

" For oft, when on my couch I lie

  In vacant or in pensive mood,

  They flash upon that inward eye

  Which is the bliss of solitude.

  And then my heart with pleasure fills,

  And dances with the daffodils. "

What could have been the fountainhead of such unabated joy ?

" A host of golden daffodils " ? 

I really do not know what was the source of inspiration for the mystical pantheist, but there is no gainsaying the fact that Wordsworth's poetry has inspired generations to come and I am no different. There's a sort of an eerie feeling that you have when you read his poems and realize that they are but a 'spontaneous outburst of emotions recollected in tranquility.'

Poetry is unpremeditated, but still how do emotions follow a meter ? How come there is never a single word in his poems that seems superfluous ? How come his poems always manage to strum the strings of the heart ?

I don't have answers to any of these questions, but I know for sure that Wordsworth's poems made the world seem a better place to live in...   

Nascent Reflections...

What could be the reason for choosing such a name and what would the theme be...

I believe that Poetry is the most sublime form of unpremeditated art, a pedagogic influence on mind and senses alike, a poignant upsurge of emotions in a relatively impassive and indifferent world..

Or is it something more, something of a microcosm by itself, rendering an Utopian world of uninhibited imagination, with tranquility and beauty at its highest zenith...

Or is it a mirror reflection of man's inner soul, a semblance of the obscure melodies in his mind, a spontaneous outburst of his 'nascent reflections' on life...

Whatever be it, Poetry is more eloquent than words and more articulate than silence, it has power to create and re-create the ecstasy of life’s music, it can move mountains and bend trees, uplift spirits from their grave and freeze time in its trail.

Poetry is older than the hills and will last till the stars burn away, unlike the mortal being who as Shakespeare summarized, "we are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep" and inspired me to pen my first acrostic poem.

Every path that I tread, would be lost someday 

Pebbles that I throw would merge with the clay;

Hands that I shake would not leave a trace

Eternity was never a part of my race.

Money in my vaults would lie all bare

Every song that I sing would melt in thin air;

Relations I have, would eventually end

All joy and sadness would finally blend.

Life would be a candle in its dying stage

Immortal thoughts would gradually age;

There would not endure my dreams either

Young or old, everlasting would be neither.