Wordsworth: A Personal Selection

I have just returned from the Lake District and felt it was fitting to share some of my favourite Wordsworth poems. Whilst the Gothicism of the Lakes was acute, the centrality of Wordsworth’s work is a saturation of Romanticism. Reading such in the presence of the Lake’s dramatic sublimity made this almost heady. What is clear from his poetic work is its focalisation of the self and its interdependence with the natural world. So although a sense of solitude and poignant emptiness manifested itself in the landscape, simultaneously a deeper relationship with one’s surroundings is established. There is both absence and presence.  

‘The Boat- Stealing Episode’ (1799)

They guided me: one evening, led by them,

I went alone into a Shepherd’s boat,

A skiff that to a willow-tree was tied

Within a rocky cave, its usual home;

The moon was up, the lake was shining clear

Among the hoary mountains: from the shore

I pushed, and struck the oars, and struck again

In cadence, and my little Boat moved on

Just like a man who walks with stately step

Though bent on speed.

It was an act of stealth

And troubled pleasure; not without the voice

Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on,

Leaving behind her still on either side

Small circles glittering idly in the moon

Until they melted all into one track

Of sparkling light. A rocky steep uprose

Above the cavern of the willow-tree,

And now, as suited one who proudly rowed

With his best skill, I fixed a steady view

Upon the top of that same craggy ridge,

The bound of the horizon—for behind

Was nothing -- but the stars and the grey sky.

She was an elfin Pinnace; lustily

I dipp'd my oars into the silent Lake,

And as I rose upon the stroke, my Boat

Went heaving through the water, like a Swan,

When from behind that craggy Steep, till then

The bound of the horizon, a huge Cliff,

As if with voluntary power instinct,

Uprear'd its head: I struck, and struck again,

And, growing still in stature, the huge Cliff

Rose up between me and the stars, and still,

With measur'd motion, like a living thing,

Strode after me.

With trembling hands I turned,

And through the silent water stole my way

Back to the Cavern of the Willow tree.

There, in her mooring-place, I left my Bark,

And through the meadows [homeward] went with grave

And serious thoughts: and after I had seen

That spectacle, for many days my brain

Work'd with a dim and undetermin'd sense

Of unknown modes of being: in my thoughts

There was a darkness, call it solitude,

Or blank desertion; no familiar shapes

Of hourly objects, images of trees,

Of sea, or sky, no colours of green fields;

But huge and mighty Forms, that do not live

Like living men mov'd slowly through my mind

By day and were the trouble of my dreams.

‘There Was a Boy’

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs 
And islands of Winander!--many a time, 
At evening, when the earliest stars began 
To move along the edges of the hills, 
Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; 
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 
That they might answer him.--And they would shout 
Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
Responsive to his call,--with quivering peals, 
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild 
Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause 
Of silence such as baffled his best skill: 
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
Has carried far into his heart the voice 
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene 
Would enter unawares into his mind 
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 
Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
This boy was taken from his mates, and died 
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 
Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs 
Upon a slope above the village-school; 
And, through that church-yard when my way has led 
On summer-evenings, I believe, that there 
A long half-hour together I have stood 
Mute--looking at the grave in which he lies! 

‘It Is a Beauteous Evening’

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

The holy time is quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea:

Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder--everlastingly.

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;

And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,

God being with thee when we know it not.

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud 

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The Prelude, Book First, An Excerpt

          OH there is blessing in this gentle breeze,

          A visitant that while it fans my cheek

          Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings

          From the green fields, and from yon azure sky.

          Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come

          To none more grateful than to me; escaped

          From the vast city, where I long had pined

          A discontented sojourner: now free,

          Free as a bird to settle where I will.

          What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale                

          Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove

          Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream

          Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?

          The earth is all before me. With a heart

          Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty,

          I look about; and should the chosen guide

          Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,

          I cannot miss my way. I breathe again!

          Trances of thought and mountings of the mind

          Come fast upon me: it is shaken off,                        

          That burthen of my own unnatural self,

          The heavy weight of many a weary day

          Not mine, and such as were not made for me.

          Long months of peace (if such bold word accord

          With any promises of human life),

          Long months of ease and undisturbed delight

          Are mine in prospect; whither shall I turn,

          By road or pathway, or through trackless field,

          Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing

          Upon the river point me out my course?               

                                              Taken at Lake Conniston reminding me of the Boat-Stealing Episode

                                          Taken at Wordsworth's home 'Dove Cottage'