It's a symptom of the would-be writer to oftentimes engage in talking about what it means to write - what it means to be a writer - more often, and with more intensity and, better yet, more (seeming) sincerity, than to engage in the actual practice of writing. (I've been guilty of this myself; I'm guilty of this right now.) This variety of metaconsciousness is unavoidable (and not necessarily harmful, or unwelcome), and, what's more, sometimes some writers are better at it (i.e., they do so more thoughtfully) than they do the other thing. However, despite what the writer may say, or believe, about their "philosophy of composition" - that is, their aesthetic; despite how they feel or what they believe about "their art," whether Borges thinks it exists or not - owing to the intractable concatenation of history, no less: changing tastes, values, et cetera - time itself necessarily corrupts the message. Put another way, all art - at least as the artist intended it to be received - is just as susceptible to death as the person who made it.
I say this because, having come to Lyrical Ballads more than 200 years after its publication, my scant exposure to the romantics notwithstanding, even though I intellectually understand Wordsworth's - and, to a lesser extent, Coleridge's - progressive aims, both with the collection and with the larger movement, I still can't see these poems as anything other than very fucking old. Reading Wordsworth's groundbreaking "Preface" - in this volume placed at the end, after the poems, and unironically my favorite part of the book - can purge one of their cultural and perhaps aesthetic biases. The poetry-lovers of today, even the ones, like me, who studied English literature in college, mostly read and write free-verse: Meter, which is timeless and present whether we want it to be or not, is unappreciated; and rhyme scheme, not necessarily rhyme (viz. rhyme as a random event), is - for some - vociferously decried and avoided. Whether this represents, on a deeper level, a cultural liberation or the softening of the mind, the stupefication of the average reader, which was and always has been the average consumer - writing a carefully metered poem, after all, especially one that isn't iambic, takes immense practice and patience - is a discussion for another time.
To reiterate, whether free verse poetry is any good is something that I am perhaps too deeply enmired within it to answer properly, but I can say that, again - and without shame - because of my biases, that I am able to notice and appreciate the historical movements that we've made toward the adoption of free verse poetry as the norm. By his own admission, Wordsworth wanted, by publishing Lyrical Ballads, not only to tell the stories of the common people - the poor, the destitute, the uneducated, the unsophisticated - but also to adopt their way of speaking to the poetic medium. Again, I can't really appreciate what this means. In some ways, probably because Wordsworth was ultimately successful, I associate modern poetry with that very thing (i.e., an unrestrained voice) and classical poetry/literature with the highfalutin, the carefully constructed, the poetic-seeming; therefore, to read an old book and, as I do it, find something halfway between classical and modern (though much closer to the latter than to the former) is to find it just as liminal as it is limited, just as ancient as it is anachronistic. As a modern reader who (thinks he) loves the classics, I'm suddenly aware that I believe I love them because they are so unlike the kinds of things written today. But the actual meaning of their relationship - if their timelines and prior influences could be perfectly and deterministically traced - remains, and remain it always will, an indelible mystery.