In the case of a certain poet since dead, and never popular, he said to me, 'I consider his sonnets to be the best of modern times;' adding, 'Of course I am not including my own in any comparison with those of others.' He was not sanguine as to the future of English poetry.

He thought that there was much to be supplied in other departments of our literature, and especially he desired a really great History of England; but he was disposed to regard the roll of English poetry as made up, and as leaving place for little more except what was likely to be eccentric or imitational.
In his younger days Wordsworth had had to fight a great battle in poetry, for both his subjects and his mode of treating them were antagonistic to the maxims then current.

It was fortunate for posterity, no doubt, that his long 'militant estate' was animated by some mingling of personal ambition with his love of poetry.

Speaking in an early sonnet of 'The poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth, and pure delight, by heavenly lays,' he concludes, 'Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days.' He died at eighty, and general fame did not come to him till about fifteen years before his death.

This perhaps might have been fifteen years too soon, if he had set any inordinate value on it.