I’m reading a Wordsworth poem for my seminar, and as I read the second stanza, a “reply” played out onto the page through my pen—I, the happy medium.
From Wordsworth’s Expostulation and Reply:
“‘Where are your books? —that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.”
“eyes closed to inner light
bereft of spirit’s sight
turn to dusty books
fingering dry pages with
wet and yearning sighs.”
I think that’s a response to the expostulating friend, not to Wordsworth, but it was a sort of happy unexpected flow of words that was fun.