William Wordsworth (1770-1850) is today considered one of the greatest and influential Romantic poets. Born in Cockermouth, England, he spent a lot of time in rural areas, particularly Hawkeshead, and thus learned to love nature from an early age. He suffered some terrible hardships in his young life. His mother died in 1778 and his father died in 1783, leaving the Wordsworth children scrambling around relatives’ homes – relatives who saw them as little more than financial burden. In fact, Wordsworth develops a fascination in writing about children later in his life – poems like “Alice Fell” and “The Affliction of Margaret.” Wordsworth often writes about childhood and nature.
Information comes from:
Poetry Criticism. Ed. Robyn V. Young. Vol. 4. Detroit: Gale Research, 1992. p369-431.
Personal Note:
Wordsworth was fun to read at first, but his poems became a little tedious to read by the end of the week. They all have the same exact rhythm, and except for “An Anecdote for Fathers,” there were no surprises in his poems. Also, Wordsworth claimed to write in “language really used by men” (quoted from Wordsworth in his Preface to the 1802 edition of Lyrical Ballads), but I highly disagree. Perhaps his language is more comprehensive than Elizabethan, per se, but it is still not language “really used by men.”
Nevertheless, I acknowledge that I have not read enough of Wordsworth’s poems to fully judge his poetry. Perhaps there are other poems with surprises that I just missed this week. He is a fun read once in a while, but I would not be able to read his poems for a week.
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Anecdote for Fathers
I have a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Our quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.
The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.
Birds warbled round me -- and each trace
of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favored place,
And so is Liswyn farm.
My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.
Now tell me, had you rather be,
I said, and took him by the arm,
On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.
Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why. --
I cannot tell, I do not know. --
Why, this is strange, said I;
For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:
There surely must some reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea.
At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And three times to the child I said,
Why, Edward, tell me why?
His head he raised -- there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain --
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply:
At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that's the reason why.
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.
This poem is much easier to understand than Milton’s. Wordsworth questions the role of the father in the relationship between father and son. The father knows more about physical life, yet the child understands the spiritual and emotional aspect of life better than the father. The irony of the last stanza is beautiful, the last two lines sounding very romantic.
The Affliction of Margaret
Where art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;
To have despaired, have hoped, believed,
And been for evermore beguiled, -
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
I catch at them, and then I miss;
Was ever darkness like to this?
He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.
Ah! little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares!
He knows it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.
Neglect me! no, I suffered long
From that ill thought; and, being blind,
Said "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed:" and that is true;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.
My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount -how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;
Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.
I look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me: 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Between the living and the dead;
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass:
I question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend!
This is another poem about the relationship between parent and child. Unlike the last poem, Wordsworth imitates the voice of a woman in the narration. It is easy to conclude that Wordsworth found the relationship between parents and children to be important – and, when looked at from a biographical standpoint, it is much clearer why Wordsworth paid so much attention to children. His childhood ended abruptly.
Alice Fell
The Post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threat'ning clouds the moon had drown'd;
When suddenly I seem'd to hear
A moan, a lamentable sound.
As if the wind blew many ways
I heard the sound, and more and more:
It seem'd to follow with the Chaise,
And still I heard it as before.
At length I to the Boy call'd out,
He stopp'd his horses at the word;
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it could be heard.
The Boy then smack'd his whip, and fast
The horses scamper'd through the rain;
And soon I heard upon the blast
The voice, and bade him halt again.
Said I, alighting on the ground,
"What can it be, this piteous moan?"
And there a little Girl I found,
Sitting behind the Chaise, alone.
"My Cloak!" the word was last and first,
And loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her very heart would burst;
And down from off the Chaise she leapt.
"What ails you, Child?" she sobb'd, "Look here!"
I saw it in the wheel entangled,
A weather beaten Rag as e'er
From any garden scare-crow dangled.
'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;
Her help she lent, and with good heed
Together we released the Cloak;
A wretched, wretched rag indeed!
"And whither are you going, Child,
To night along these lonesome ways?"
"To Durham" answer'd she half wild--
"Then come with me into the chaise."
She sate like one past all relief;
Sob after sob she forth did send
In wretchedness, as if her grief
Could never, never, have an end.
"My Child, in Durham do you dwell?"
She check'd herself in her distress,
And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless."
"And I to Durham, Sir, belong."
And then, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tatter'd Cloak.
The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,
As if she'd lost her only friend
She wept, nor would be pacified.
Up to the Tavern-door we post;
Of Alice and her grief I told;
And I gave money to the Host,
To buy a new Cloak for the old.
"And let it be of duffil grey,
As warm a cloak as man can sell!"
Proud Creature was she the next day,
The little Orphan, Alice Fell!
I read this as a biographical poem. Wordsworth is Alice Fell. He is “fatherless and motherless.” Perhaps this is the story he wished would occur to him – for someone to come along and save him from his homelessness. Relatives did take him in, but he was never loved by them. I can feel Wordsworth’s emotion carefully seeping into the poem – a kind of sadness.
Beggars
She had a tall Man's height, or more;
No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;
A long drab-colour'd Cloak she wore,
A Mantle reaching to her feet:
What other dress she had I could not know;
Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow.
In all my walks, through field or town,
Such Figure had I never seen:
Her face was of Egyptian brown:
Fit person was she for a Queen,
To head those ancient Amazonian files:
Or ruling Bandit's Wife, among the Grecian Isles.
Before me begging did she stand,
Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
Grief after grief:--on English Land
Such woes I knew could never be;
And yet a boon I gave her; for the Creature
Was beautiful to see; a Weed of glorious feature!
I left her, and pursued my way;
And soon before me did espy
A pair of little Boys at play,
Chasing a crimson butterfly;
The Taller follow'd with his hat in hand,
Wreath'd round with yellow flow'rs, the gayest of the land.
The Other wore a rimless crown,
With leaves of laurel stuck about:
And they both follow'd up and down,
Each whooping with a merry shout;
Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old;
And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold.
They bolted on me thus, and lo!
Each ready with a plaintive whine;
Said I, "Not half an hour ago
Your Mother has had alms of mine."
"That cannot be," one answer'd, "She is dead."
"Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."
"She has been dead, Sir, many a day."
"Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie";
"It was your Mother, as I say--"
And in the twinkling of an eye, . . . . . . 40
"Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado,
Off to some other play they both together flew.
Wordsworth is complaining or even ranting about love in this poem. He explains that he has given a woman money and that she betrayed him -- her children say that she is dead. She disappears and the narrator is quite crushed. Unfortunately, I do not sense much emotion in this poem. Wordsworth is very detached from the narration and I even find the Romantic rhythm and rhyme to be distracting. The poem feels a little artificial to me.
"The Thorn" is too long to post here.
This is a link to the poem:
http://homepages.wmich.edu/~cooneys/poems/bad/Wordsworth.thorn.html#Note
Unfortunately, Wordsworth’s lines have gotten a little mundane to me throughout the course of the week. Sympathy expressed in the poem – “Oh woe!” – feels flat. I do not feel real emotion in the poem as it is too heavily revised. It is like a dried fruit – its potential juices have all seeped out through editing. One critic referred to Wordsworth’s verse as “mechanical” and I agree.
I think Wordsworth was brilliant for his time, but now his work is outdated. It sounds cliché and contains no surprises.
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