The Hair Is Running, Races in Her Mirth

Wordsworth used to get really miffed about people writing so called nature poetry that wasn't actually about real nature. So he writes about a ar running in a inner in a field. And i think this is fantastic. Listen, the hair is running, races in her mirth. In her mirth, in a sort of humour, a joy. I'm not going to read the whole poem. Tis long. But im ong to read what i would call the best bits. There was a roaring in the wind. All night. The rain came heavily and fell in s. But now the sun is rising, calm and bright. The birds are singing in the distant woods