British Poets: Wednesday Wordsworth

Ok, I will admit that I am starting this saga on Tuesday, but Wednesday Wordsworth sounds so much better IMHO! LOL!

I like Wordsworth! Yes, he is an early romanticist, but he isn't quite as evil as I expected from all the talking that Thelma does about him. I don't like where his romanticism led us, but I liked the poem I just listened to:


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 waves in glee:
A poet could not but be 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.

William Wordsworth

Very long but very funny too:

The Idiot Boy

An audio of a great English reader:

"She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways"

I wonder who Lucy was to Wordsworth?

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
            Beside the springs of Dove,
          A Maid whom there were none to praise
            And very few to love:

          A violet by a mossy stone
            Half hidden from the eye!
          --Fair as a star, when only one
            Is shining in the sky.

          She lived unknown, and few could know
            When Lucy ceased to be;                                   10
          But she is in her grave, and, oh,
            The difference to me!
Maybe this is her:



OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
          And, when I crossed the wild,
          I chanced to see at break of day
          The solitary child.

          No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
          She dwelt on a wide moor,
          --The sweetest thing that ever grew
          Beside a human door!

          You yet may spy the fawn at play,
          The hare upon the green;                                    10
          But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
          Will never more be seen.

          "To-night will be a stormy night--
          You to the town must go;
          And take a lantern, Child, to light
          Your mother through the snow."

          "That, Father! will I gladly do:
          'Tis scarcely afternoon--
          The minster-clock has just struck two,
          And yonder is the moon!"                                    20

          At this the Father raised his hook,
          And snapped a faggot-band;
          He plied his work;--and Lucy took
          The lantern in her hand.

          Not blither is the mountain roe:
          With many a wanton stroke
          Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
          That rises up like smoke.

          The storm came on before its time:
          She wandered up and down;                                   30
          And many a hill did Lucy climb:
          But never reached the town.

          The wretched parents all that night
          Went shouting far and wide;
          But there was neither sound nor sight
          To serve them for a guide.

          At day-break on a hill they stood
          That overlooked the moor;
          And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
          A furlong from their door.                                  40

          They wept--and, turning homeward, cried,
          "In heaven we all shall meet;"
          --When in the snow the mother spied
          The print of Lucy's feet.

          Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
          They tracked the footmarks small;
          And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
          And by the long stone-wall;

          And then an open field they crossed:
          The marks were still the same;                              50
          They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
          And to the bridge they came.

          They followed from the snowy bank
          Those footmarks, one by one,
          Into the middle of the plank;
          And further there were none!

          --Yet some maintain that to this day
          She is a living child;
          That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
          Upon the lonesome wild.                                     60

          O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
          And never looks behind;
          And sings a solitary song
          That whistles in the wind.
According to Wikipedia, it is NOT the same Lucy in the two poems!
Didn't care for this one because Wordsworth definitely has a different world view than me::
"Lines Left Upon a Seat in a Yew Tree"
Interesting critique of it here:
The poem documents the life of a hermit. The hermit lives in solitude, away from society. 
He instead finds solace and beauty in nature. However Wordsworth does not encourage
 us to be a complete hermit, but find a balance between accepting nature and society.  
Wordsworth is again relating to the common man in this poem. However, by judging
 the man as a 'hermit', Wordsworth inentions could be constructed as condescending, 
which is the opposite of his objectives in the 'preface' to lyrical ballads.

I still need to read a couple of short poem and "The Prelude" which is a very long poem. 
I listened to excerpts last night, but I can't find it at the library. 
So, I might have to buy it for my Kindle. :)
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