Somewhere, in the past six months or so, I picked up a copy of Dorothy Wordsworth's journals--maybe in a bookstore bin of cheap classics. They've been on my to-read list forever. And they are wonderful, filled with factual detail of domestic life inside and outside Dove Cottage: ironing, baking bread, making jam, going off to the lakeside or the forest and coming back with plants to transplant into her (and her brother's) garden. And the walks--hardly a day passes without a walk to the next town to pick up letters or visit neighbors, or around one of the nearby lakes, which I can only imagine (as nowadays probably "cutiefied" beyond recognition, like Monet's Giverny, which I do know). She is terribly attentive to William's fluctuating moods and insomnias, and they both seem to sleep at such odd and irregular hours, catching up during the day on hours spent fretting over a poem during the night. Apparently homeless people, men, women and children, constantly pass on the road or stop to receive a little charity, that Dorothy dispenses generously, though I suppose her own finances couldn't have been brilliant--this is something she never mentions.
I must also have bought a copy of the 1798 Lyrical Ballads, a pretty Penguin paperback with a detail from Thomas Girtin's "Tinturn Abbey" on the cover. I've begun rereading it. It is lovely to have as a separate volume, slim, authentic--so much nicer to have than a Collected Works (this is true of just about any poet I can think of, let's say, Larkin--how much nicer to have three small books than a fat doorstop).