In the light of a new biography on Thomas de Quincey, I reblog this piece.
What happened when Thomas told William Wordsworth about his new wife?
Mrs Thomas de Quincey
‘Not quite the right sort’
The report of the poet with a Phd
In snobbery, the Lakeland straight man
‘What are you thinking, giving a ring
To a milkmaid? Affairs are one thing,
Marriage something else,’ he said, pacing
Around the room on elegant feet.
‘I mean, just think where her hands
Have been,’ he protested, dabbing his
Troubled forehead with a finely starched
Handkerchief, wringing it out
Onto the ice-sleek polished floor,
Watching the sweat drip, flicking
A lock of hair gone stray back
To the left, then right again.
De Quincey paced the room around
With his eyes, surprised by the
Reaction of his friend, so keen to
Lend his voice to the meek and poor,
To champion the cause
Of the idiots and the mad, then
Thomas became glad, because…
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