Of course your poem, which I should have been pleased to read, has not found its way to me.
You inquire about old books: you might almost as well have asked for my teeth as for any of mine.

The only _modern_ books that I read are those of Travels, or such as relate to matters of fact; and the only modern books that I care for; but as to old ones, I am like yourself--scarcely anything comes amiss to me.

The little time I have to spare--the very little, I may say--all goes that way.

If, however, in the _line of your profession_ you want any bulky old Commentaries on the Scriptures (such as not twelve strong men of these degenerate days will venture--I do not say to _read_, but to _lift_), I can, perhaps, as a special favour, accommodate you.
I and mine will be happy to see you and yours here or anywhere; but I am sorry the time you talk of is so distant: a year and a half is a long time looking forward, though looking back ten times as much is as brief as a dream.

My writing is wholly illegible--at least I fear so; I had better, therefore, release you.
Believe me, my dear Wrangham, Your affectionate friend, W.WORDSWORTH.[95] 59.