Ode to Wordsworth

Where does the soft spring breeze go?
Where will it end?
As it crosses hill and vale, mountain and plain.
Do you know from whence it came?

Where does the meadowlark fly?
Which skies does it caress with its wings?
Who hears its beautiful song,
And recognizes from whence it came?

Where does the cold mountain stream run?
Where do its murmurings alight,
As it twinkles and bubbles through the dense forest
Running swiftly from whence it came.

Where do the poets words flow?
For whom do they cry?
Their words rhyme in time as they rise and fall.
And one knows from whence it came.