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The Prelude or Growth of a Poet"s Mind (Text of 1805). Edited from the Manuscripts with Introduction and Notes by Ernest de Selincourt
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First published January 1, 1850
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December 5, 2018
First read over a half-century ago, but chosen now by chance after two M.C. Beaton mysteries: unexpectedly linked by fuel. At Scottish home fires, and in Wordsworth’s childhood two centuries ago, “we pursued / Our home amusements by the warm peat-fire.” (Book I, end) Also as in Beaton, rural labor teaches ethics that the city may not; here, young Wordy* rows, races against his fellows on a lake toward an island with the remains of a chapel; “In such a race/ So ended, disappointment could be none,/…We rested in the shade, all pleased alike, / Conquered and conqueror. Thus pride of strength,/ And the vain-glory of superior skill, were tempered.”**(Book II).
Before finding his epic subject of self-development, the poet searches “some old / Romantic tale by Milton left unsung; / More often turning to some gentle place /Within the groves of Chivalry.” Or, “How Mithridates northward passed…” or “some high-souled man,/ Unnamed among the chronicles of kings, / Suffered in silence for Truth’s sake….”
Like Rousseau’s Confessions, this poet’s whole project illustrates his line, “The child is father of the man,” which becomes Freud’s analysis a century later.
The most famous page in the whole Prelude comes midway in Book I, where the young oarsman-poet takes “A little boat tied to a willow tree / Within a rocky cove…” and admits “It was an act of stealth.” As he rows out, fixing his eye on a craggy ridge to the rear, “a huge peak, black and huge…Upreared its head…” For many days he felt that spectacle, “Of unknown modes of being,” of the power behind, within Nature, quite beyond “the mean and vulgar works of man.” And might I add, no Englishman can know “mean and vulgar works” equal to American malls or what Russians Ilf and Petrov called in the 50’s, “one-storied America.”
Behind the poem also lies social reform, when seeing a "hunger-bitten girl" tied to a heifer, "that poverty / Abject as this would in a little while / Be found no more"(Bk IX). And this did happen in 19C America, though such poverty--now post-industrial--has returned, massively. Of his residence at Cambridge and in London, he wonders "how men lived / Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still/ Strangers, not knowing each the other's name."(Bk VII)
He writes about fifteen years after, though publishing six decades later his 1792 French Revolution sojourn and amour with Annette Vallon producing daughter Caroline. He admits he's "untaught ..by books / To reason well of polity or law"...though then "on every tongue,/ natural rights and civil"(Bk IX) Of his French love, "I wept not then,-- but tears have dimmed my sight, / In memory of the farewells of that time, / Domestic severings, female fortitude / At dearest separation...." He returned to London because England had declared war on France, though the temporary move became much more.
In Book Two he recalls renting a horse, riding to a disused Abbey (maybe Tintern) and even riding their horses down the chantry, “in uncouth race,” “and that single wren / Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave.” G Sample says in Bird Songs and Calls of Britain “in the latter half of the year, the wrens may be the only birds singing… like the real owners of the wood.” I recall hearing a couple wrens near the North River in Islington, startlingly copious song, as much as the Skylark, and easier to imitate (closer to diatonic scale).
Wordsworth recalls growing up (in 1780s) with little food in Cockermouth, overlooking the Derwent; the kids played games 'til after dark, "A rude mass / Of native rock, left midway in the square of our small market village, was the goal / Or centre of these sports..."( Bk II, start). He doesn’t say exactly what he played, but later he rented a horse and rode through an Abbey--maybe down in Tintern Abbey. Most of his writing is about Nature and Solitude, so these town-centered games—Tag? Bowlywicket? Handball?--were a surprise.
* Oops—just a glancing diminutive, not worthy of the poet’s Reader, whom he calls “Friend”--in Book VI, his Friend is Coleridge. The poet knows his Friend will not think “that I have lengthened out / With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale” (Bk I, end).
**Would that the Trumpster had learned basic (rural) ethics, to temper his excruciating vain-glory.
PS I read in Carlos Baker's edition, Holt Rhinehart, 1961.
PPS I’ve visited Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage in Grasmere many decades ago, and a decade ago, his rented Alfoxden, with Coleridge’s nearby in Nether Stowey, Somerset (at least, W’s is).
Before finding his epic subject of self-development, the poet searches “some old / Romantic tale by Milton left unsung; / More often turning to some gentle place /Within the groves of Chivalry.” Or, “How Mithridates northward passed…” or “some high-souled man,/ Unnamed among the chronicles of kings, / Suffered in silence for Truth’s sake….”
Like Rousseau’s Confessions, this poet’s whole project illustrates his line, “The child is father of the man,” which becomes Freud’s analysis a century later.
The most famous page in the whole Prelude comes midway in Book I, where the young oarsman-poet takes “A little boat tied to a willow tree / Within a rocky cove…” and admits “It was an act of stealth.” As he rows out, fixing his eye on a craggy ridge to the rear, “a huge peak, black and huge…Upreared its head…” For many days he felt that spectacle, “Of unknown modes of being,” of the power behind, within Nature, quite beyond “the mean and vulgar works of man.” And might I add, no Englishman can know “mean and vulgar works” equal to American malls or what Russians Ilf and Petrov called in the 50’s, “one-storied America.”
Behind the poem also lies social reform, when seeing a "hunger-bitten girl" tied to a heifer, "that poverty / Abject as this would in a little while / Be found no more"(Bk IX). And this did happen in 19C America, though such poverty--now post-industrial--has returned, massively. Of his residence at Cambridge and in London, he wonders "how men lived / Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still/ Strangers, not knowing each the other's name."(Bk VII)
He writes about fifteen years after, though publishing six decades later his 1792 French Revolution sojourn and amour with Annette Vallon producing daughter Caroline. He admits he's "untaught ..by books / To reason well of polity or law"...though then "on every tongue,/ natural rights and civil"(Bk IX) Of his French love, "I wept not then,-- but tears have dimmed my sight, / In memory of the farewells of that time, / Domestic severings, female fortitude / At dearest separation...." He returned to London because England had declared war on France, though the temporary move became much more.
In Book Two he recalls renting a horse, riding to a disused Abbey (maybe Tintern) and even riding their horses down the chantry, “in uncouth race,” “and that single wren / Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave.” G Sample says in Bird Songs and Calls of Britain “in the latter half of the year, the wrens may be the only birds singing… like the real owners of the wood.” I recall hearing a couple wrens near the North River in Islington, startlingly copious song, as much as the Skylark, and easier to imitate (closer to diatonic scale).
Wordsworth recalls growing up (in 1780s) with little food in Cockermouth, overlooking the Derwent; the kids played games 'til after dark, "A rude mass / Of native rock, left midway in the square of our small market village, was the goal / Or centre of these sports..."( Bk II, start). He doesn’t say exactly what he played, but later he rented a horse and rode through an Abbey--maybe down in Tintern Abbey. Most of his writing is about Nature and Solitude, so these town-centered games—Tag? Bowlywicket? Handball?--were a surprise.
* Oops—just a glancing diminutive, not worthy of the poet’s Reader, whom he calls “Friend”--in Book VI, his Friend is Coleridge. The poet knows his Friend will not think “that I have lengthened out / With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale” (Bk I, end).
**Would that the Trumpster had learned basic (rural) ethics, to temper his excruciating vain-glory.
PS I read in Carlos Baker's edition, Holt Rhinehart, 1961.
PPS I’ve visited Wordsworth’s Dove Cottage in Grasmere many decades ago, and a decade ago, his rented Alfoxden, with Coleridge’s nearby in Nether Stowey, Somerset (at least, W’s is).
December 28, 2020
The unfoldment of the Self through the City is one of isolation and alienation, a gradual displacement of a spiritual unity into a materialistic space, the gridlock of the city and its world-feeling. So it is no wonder that, in history, when things are beginning to vanish, they blossom and explode into its largest cultural expression, a sunset effect of consciousness. When knights, with dull chainmail and little aesthetic form are dying out is precisely right when the knights in shining armor with their plethora of angular aesthetic and a sculpted, glossy and 'noble' knighthood visage. So, too, when nature begins to become exploited and is becoming lost, the stories of Grimm and fairy tales, gingerbread men and worlds of fantasia come back to grasp what was lost. So, when nature is invaded by trains and machines, the Poet clings tightest to nature and must return to the trees in an artistic solipsism and a celebration of the Artist / Poet with capital letters as an identity as such.
What the Prelude metahistorically signifies is the birth of a new consciousness into a modern world — of knocking back on the womb of nature — and using language as a means to return to it (by seeing the trees and rivers speaking to him) though language is the means by which the Poet becomes conscious of his own alienation — yet ironically Language is the force of his alienation — for were he not trapped in linguistic, serial time he would be in the cosmic sentience of the babe. Thereby, he hears language in nature itself (in close relation to Kabbalah, and the knowledge of the true name of things).
And so the constant need to instantiate the poem into the land, the object of the world, itself. Either by implanting the poem into a location and giving it a localized sense of being, or by literally carving the poem into the rock, the clinging becomes tighter. Wordsworth, losing both parents by age 13, representing Oedipal undertones through this loss of the connectivity with nature, the orphan lost in the world, and so lacking the real parent is resolved unconsciously through the archetypal Parent of Father Sky and Mother Earth. At one moment, stealing a bird away from a snare that someone else has caught, runs away and hears low breathing of himself being caught by the neighbors and townsmen but on a higher turn on the spiral: that Bird is the symbol of the Self and he is stealing himself away from nature and the breathing and rumbling heard is of Nature itself for the process of individuation is the crime of individuation.
All during the poem, Wordsworth struggles to put consciousness back in nature and attempts to reachieve Nature — but after his experiences of the celebration of the Artist (with capital A) and the artistic unity of being to heal the wound is reached — he reaches the integration of his consciousness equal to nature. Many miss these concluding lines, marking him as a mere simple animist who is trying to get back into nature but what the poem is really about is psychology and consciousness and a phenomenology of the Self in almost Hegelian terms.
What the Prelude metahistorically signifies is the birth of a new consciousness into a modern world — of knocking back on the womb of nature — and using language as a means to return to it (by seeing the trees and rivers speaking to him) though language is the means by which the Poet becomes conscious of his own alienation — yet ironically Language is the force of his alienation — for were he not trapped in linguistic, serial time he would be in the cosmic sentience of the babe. Thereby, he hears language in nature itself (in close relation to Kabbalah, and the knowledge of the true name of things).
The ghostly language of the ancient earth,
Or make their dim abode in distant winds.
Thence did I drink the visionary power;
And so the constant need to instantiate the poem into the land, the object of the world, itself. Either by implanting the poem into a location and giving it a localized sense of being, or by literally carving the poem into the rock, the clinging becomes tighter. Wordsworth, losing both parents by age 13, representing Oedipal undertones through this loss of the connectivity with nature, the orphan lost in the world, and so lacking the real parent is resolved unconsciously through the archetypal Parent of Father Sky and Mother Earth. At one moment, stealing a bird away from a snare that someone else has caught, runs away and hears low breathing of himself being caught by the neighbors and townsmen but on a higher turn on the spiral: that Bird is the symbol of the Self and he is stealing himself away from nature and the breathing and rumbling heard is of Nature itself for the process of individuation is the crime of individuation.
Others will love, and we may teach them how —
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells, above this frame of things.
All during the poem, Wordsworth struggles to put consciousness back in nature and attempts to reachieve Nature — but after his experiences of the celebration of the Artist (with capital A) and the artistic unity of being to heal the wound is reached — he reaches the integration of his consciousness equal to nature. Many miss these concluding lines, marking him as a mere simple animist who is trying to get back into nature but what the poem is really about is psychology and consciousness and a phenomenology of the Self in almost Hegelian terms.
August 5, 2019
He cleared a passage for me, and the stream
In wholesome separation the two natures,
The one that feels, the other that observes.
2.5 stars. This was a tandem read with ATJG. There were torrents of bubbly moments of exhilaration but much too much clawing and climbing. Wordsworth embraces Nature, and this epic embarks on a quest of Becoming.
Finding himself splattered and besmirched with stains of human folly, Wordsworth pursues the path which leads to an actualization-- one without an embrace of either shame or decadence.
Not sure I find that interesting.
After the mountain of Milton references, I thought homage is a generous act, though this struck me at times as a benediction.
In wholesome separation the two natures,
The one that feels, the other that observes.
2.5 stars. This was a tandem read with ATJG. There were torrents of bubbly moments of exhilaration but much too much clawing and climbing. Wordsworth embraces Nature, and this epic embarks on a quest of Becoming.
Finding himself splattered and besmirched with stains of human folly, Wordsworth pursues the path which leads to an actualization-- one without an embrace of either shame or decadence.
Not sure I find that interesting.
After the mountain of Milton references, I thought homage is a generous act, though this struck me at times as a benediction.
September 29, 2024
"Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak
A lasting inspiration, sanctified
By reason, blest by faith: what we have loved,
Others will love, and we will teach them how;
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells....."
This Wordsworth promises, but does not deliver, for The Recluse, to which The Prelude was intended to serve as a "portico," or introduction, was never completed. There are those who find in The Prelude its own sufficiency, but to me, it is above all the account of his growth in wisdom, a portrait of the poet as a young man, until he arrived at this perennial insight, which was to serve as the vantage point for his great work. But he then fell silent, and fifty more years of life were not enough for him to work out what he had to say.
So we are left to imagine, and perhaps to find hints of it in this his greatest work, but in my reading, the traces are scant. Far more what we get is the youthful vision, only transcended at the end, of nature as a kind of pastoral setting where the soul can find repose from the weariness and sorrow of life. It is a song of youthful joy, which resonates profoundly for many, but not for me, because I do not see joy in youth or nature; rather, not joy alone, but joy bound to sorrow, and life bound to death.
Does Wordsworth see this? I think not - at least I do not feel it, in his atavastic and nostalgic characterizations of the Lake District, with its bucolic fields and gentle hills. It is a land of lambs without lions, of butterflies without wasps, without droughts, hunger, or the burning drive to reproduce.
This vision does not resonate with me, and I think, as I have thought so many times, of Goethe's remark to Eckermann, that the seed of all art must be truth. In Wordsworth, as in so many of the Romantics, I see not truth, but fancy.
I will add that his poetics leave me somewhat cold. His model is Milton, but I am of the party of Dante, and agree with Eliot that there is little more in the 14 books of Paradise Lost than was said in the few hundred words of Genesis that it recapitulates. Pound claimed poetry is "language charged with meaning," but Wordsworth will not settle for a dozen words when two hundred and ninety will do. This long, very long, and often repetitive work rarely takes flight, though it does at times.
Its stated purpose is to sanctify this very life as the field of holy mystery, but in truth I found his work preparatory to the goal.
A lasting inspiration, sanctified
By reason, blest by faith: what we have loved,
Others will love, and we will teach them how;
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells....."
This Wordsworth promises, but does not deliver, for The Recluse, to which The Prelude was intended to serve as a "portico," or introduction, was never completed. There are those who find in The Prelude its own sufficiency, but to me, it is above all the account of his growth in wisdom, a portrait of the poet as a young man, until he arrived at this perennial insight, which was to serve as the vantage point for his great work. But he then fell silent, and fifty more years of life were not enough for him to work out what he had to say.
So we are left to imagine, and perhaps to find hints of it in this his greatest work, but in my reading, the traces are scant. Far more what we get is the youthful vision, only transcended at the end, of nature as a kind of pastoral setting where the soul can find repose from the weariness and sorrow of life. It is a song of youthful joy, which resonates profoundly for many, but not for me, because I do not see joy in youth or nature; rather, not joy alone, but joy bound to sorrow, and life bound to death.
Does Wordsworth see this? I think not - at least I do not feel it, in his atavastic and nostalgic characterizations of the Lake District, with its bucolic fields and gentle hills. It is a land of lambs without lions, of butterflies without wasps, without droughts, hunger, or the burning drive to reproduce.
This vision does not resonate with me, and I think, as I have thought so many times, of Goethe's remark to Eckermann, that the seed of all art must be truth. In Wordsworth, as in so many of the Romantics, I see not truth, but fancy.
I will add that his poetics leave me somewhat cold. His model is Milton, but I am of the party of Dante, and agree with Eliot that there is little more in the 14 books of Paradise Lost than was said in the few hundred words of Genesis that it recapitulates. Pound claimed poetry is "language charged with meaning," but Wordsworth will not settle for a dozen words when two hundred and ninety will do. This long, very long, and often repetitive work rarely takes flight, though it does at times.
Its stated purpose is to sanctify this very life as the field of holy mystery, but in truth I found his work preparatory to the goal.
October 26, 2013
It took me a long time to read this. It's pretty clear what the constant stimulation of the digital age has done to my ability to concentrate and read epic poetry.
Wordsworth has always been my least favourite of the great sextet of English Romantic poets. I found his lyrical ballads to be a bit lachrymose, sentimental and prosey. However, I went to the Lake District for the first time a couple of weeks ago so I decided to read this as part of the whole experience. As it turns out it is great. This feels like the key text of Romanticism to me. It has all of the key themes and you can see how it fits into place amongst the other artistic revolutions taking place in this era. It intimately records Wordsworth responses to nature, demonstrating a pantheistic spirituality he later tones down in the revised 1850 edition. He shows us his joy and excitement at what appears to be the dawn of a new Democratic era in which all men are brothers following the French Revolution. The idea of writing an epic poem on the theme of your own autobiography is something I can't see happening before the Romantic era, and it is part of what makes it distinctly modern. Wordsworth shows us his childhood among the lakes, his youth, his University years, walking in the Alps and then living in France during the revolutionary period. His autobiographical insight and candour put me in mind of Rousseau's Confessions and the descriptive passages on scenery and landscape recall Caspar David Friedrich and J.M.W. Turner.
The loose, free style works well over the course of an epic poem, and you could see Wordsworth as the beginning of a tradition that would lead towards Walt Whitman, Kerouac and Ginsberg. The exploration of autobiographical, psychological themes would also eventually lead to the likes of Proust.
I think our age would really benefit from a resurgence of Romanticism, but I don't see that happening any time soon.
Wordsworth has always been my least favourite of the great sextet of English Romantic poets. I found his lyrical ballads to be a bit lachrymose, sentimental and prosey. However, I went to the Lake District for the first time a couple of weeks ago so I decided to read this as part of the whole experience. As it turns out it is great. This feels like the key text of Romanticism to me. It has all of the key themes and you can see how it fits into place amongst the other artistic revolutions taking place in this era. It intimately records Wordsworth responses to nature, demonstrating a pantheistic spirituality he later tones down in the revised 1850 edition. He shows us his joy and excitement at what appears to be the dawn of a new Democratic era in which all men are brothers following the French Revolution. The idea of writing an epic poem on the theme of your own autobiography is something I can't see happening before the Romantic era, and it is part of what makes it distinctly modern. Wordsworth shows us his childhood among the lakes, his youth, his University years, walking in the Alps and then living in France during the revolutionary period. His autobiographical insight and candour put me in mind of Rousseau's Confessions and the descriptive passages on scenery and landscape recall Caspar David Friedrich and J.M.W. Turner.
The loose, free style works well over the course of an epic poem, and you could see Wordsworth as the beginning of a tradition that would lead towards Walt Whitman, Kerouac and Ginsberg. The exploration of autobiographical, psychological themes would also eventually lead to the likes of Proust.
I think our age would really benefit from a resurgence of Romanticism, but I don't see that happening any time soon.
January 31, 2024
Now I know a number of my friends are going to consider I have completely “lost it” or gone over to the other side. But.
Truely I have just spent the most amazing period of hours listening absolutely rapt as the entire work was read to me by Nicholas Farrell as narrator.
I get it
I don’t know what it is I get, but I get it.
Just please don’t ask me to define it. But those hours of listening to this amazing flow of words has taken me to a whole other place
Truely I have just spent the most amazing period of hours listening absolutely rapt as the entire work was read to me by Nicholas Farrell as narrator.
I get it
I don’t know what it is I get, but I get it.
Just please don’t ask me to define it. But those hours of listening to this amazing flow of words has taken me to a whole other place
July 13, 2023
Wordsworth is surely one of the finest prose stylists in the English language, but I will say that I find it a bit odd that he inserted a bunch of random line breaks all over his paragraphs. I propose that a new critical edition of his essays be released that formats them in standard fashion.
OK, that was a pretty coldhearted stab at someone who is, in all seriousness, one of the great poets. Really though, there are passages in this sprawling magnum opus that have a wonderful verse quality, but much of it would be better suited to conventional prose—the uneven rhythms drive me crazy. Oh well; one can't deign to separate the Romantic from his designs, I suppose, and what Wordsworth has given us is worth encountering, egotistical indulgences and all. It is autobiographical, yes—in the richest tradition of Augustine, at that—but it is also the tale of the awakening of the Romantic consciousness; an edifice to set alongside Beethoven's late string quartets and Goethe's Faust as shaping, defining, pillars of the age of striving. This means that much of the poem is a Lucretius-like exposition of a way of looking at reality rather than an actual narrative. Ultimately, Wordsworth represents both my love for and frustration with Romanticism—there are notes of facile sentimentalism as classic notions of spirituality are detached from their roots, but there is also much to commend as the poet tells us how to properly order our loves and discern the face of God. Still, his philosophy is not ultimately strong enough to withhold an entire human life. His style is a rather limited one that can wear after a while, and I'm ready to enter someone else's mind for a while. But when he is at his best, as he is so often here, Wordsworth conveys the simple joys of the beautiful in memorably melancholy and winsome fashion.
P.S. Having just visited England and traced my way through many of the same places through which Wordsworth trekked in pursuit of enlightenment, I gained great pleasure and wisdom from his descriptions of those places, which have changed very little in the two intervening centuries. His portrait of London is especially immortal in my book. He portrays it as a dizzying onslaught of every possible shade of human passion and station, but also finds a sort of lofty poetry—an "ennobling Harmony"—within the madness.
"Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill on the plain of a too busy world! Before me flow, thou endless stream of men and moving things! Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes—with wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe—on strangers, of all ages; the quick dance of colors, lights, and forms; the deafening din; the comers and the goers face to face, face after face; the string of dazzling wares...what a shock for eyes and ears! What anarchy and din, barbarian and infernal—a phantasm, monstrous in color, motion, shape, sight, sound!"
If you've been there, you know.
OK, that was a pretty coldhearted stab at someone who is, in all seriousness, one of the great poets. Really though, there are passages in this sprawling magnum opus that have a wonderful verse quality, but much of it would be better suited to conventional prose—the uneven rhythms drive me crazy. Oh well; one can't deign to separate the Romantic from his designs, I suppose, and what Wordsworth has given us is worth encountering, egotistical indulgences and all. It is autobiographical, yes—in the richest tradition of Augustine, at that—but it is also the tale of the awakening of the Romantic consciousness; an edifice to set alongside Beethoven's late string quartets and Goethe's Faust as shaping, defining, pillars of the age of striving. This means that much of the poem is a Lucretius-like exposition of a way of looking at reality rather than an actual narrative. Ultimately, Wordsworth represents both my love for and frustration with Romanticism—there are notes of facile sentimentalism as classic notions of spirituality are detached from their roots, but there is also much to commend as the poet tells us how to properly order our loves and discern the face of God. Still, his philosophy is not ultimately strong enough to withhold an entire human life. His style is a rather limited one that can wear after a while, and I'm ready to enter someone else's mind for a while. But when he is at his best, as he is so often here, Wordsworth conveys the simple joys of the beautiful in memorably melancholy and winsome fashion.
P.S. Having just visited England and traced my way through many of the same places through which Wordsworth trekked in pursuit of enlightenment, I gained great pleasure and wisdom from his descriptions of those places, which have changed very little in the two intervening centuries. His portrait of London is especially immortal in my book. He portrays it as a dizzying onslaught of every possible shade of human passion and station, but also finds a sort of lofty poetry—an "ennobling Harmony"—within the madness.
"Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill on the plain of a too busy world! Before me flow, thou endless stream of men and moving things! Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes—with wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe—on strangers, of all ages; the quick dance of colors, lights, and forms; the deafening din; the comers and the goers face to face, face after face; the string of dazzling wares...what a shock for eyes and ears! What anarchy and din, barbarian and infernal—a phantasm, monstrous in color, motion, shape, sight, sound!"
If you've been there, you know.
November 30, 2010
I finally finished The Prelude for the first time through, but I will be reading it again for class in the next few weeks. I'm hoping a second reading will be helpful and give me a greater appreciation for the poem. I really disliked reading this poem because of the blank verse and its long, complicated sentences until Book XI of the 1805 version. I read the last three Books this evening and they gave me a greater appreciation for Wordsworth's project than I initially had. The last three Books really attempt to explain why he wanted to write The Prelude and what he was hoping to achieve. I realize that there are moments of this kind of revelation throughout the entire poem, but it is not as prevalent as it is in the last three Books. I feel like I can't really talk about Wordsworth critically because the poem is so complicated and I haven't quite established a vocabulary to discuss it yet, but I'm hoping that the outside reading I plan to do will help me with this. However, I can say as far as content goes, I really appreciate Wordsworth's all encompassing faith in humanity, and his belief that man can render anything as beautiful even in the most dismal of times; reflection allows us to find meaning and beauty in everything.
June 30, 2025
Telling my kids this was The Lakes by Taylor Swift.
January 6, 2025
My most ambitious reading project of 2024 was to read The Prelude in its entirety, having only ever read bits and pieces since first encountering it nearly 20 (!) years ago in Brit Lit. I had no taste for it in high school, but the more I've read and thought about Wordsworth since, the more I've admired him. And since two writers I highly esteem (C. S. Lewis and Charlotte Mason) found so much of value in The Prelude, I decided it was about time I read the whole thing.
Though my enthusiasm flagged several times—and it ended up taking nearly half a year to finish, from May to October—I enjoyed the poem tremendously. It's a fine blend of exquisite description and philosophical musing. Perhaps predictably, I enjoyed the first few books (in which he recounts his boyhood) most of all. Those are the books that Charlotte Mason gets so much out of, and they are the ones set in his (and her and my) beloved Lake District. It's no surprise that I should find early education and Cumbria more delightful than anything that followed...like abortive university studies and trips to France, including during the Revolution. (But I was surprised to find his treatments of London and Cambridge also fascinating—he has a knack for describing place, even if it's not a sympathetic description.)
I used to resent Wordsworth's insistence on the plainness of poetic language, but now I think his style is wonderfully direct and bracing. Any writer who feels like his words are too convoluted should read 1000 lines of Wordsworth to get it out of his system! And if the problem persists, he should try to write 20 lines in imitation of Wordsworth. (I will keep this self-prescription in mind.)
The coffee-table-book edition that I read from was lavishly illustrated with period paintings. I marveled at these for about the first quarter of the poem—especially the very many housed at the Yale Center for British Art, which I could conceivably visit—but then I got over them. Some well-chosen landscapes and portraits are very helpful, but I don't think my reading benefited from illustrations on virtually every page, especially when they were only tangentially related to the text. The copious illustrations make the dimensions of the book somewhat unwieldy—though on the other hand, there was plenty of room for all the annotations I wanted to make.
This large reading project was part of a general goal to read long poems in 2024. I find narrative poetry much more challenging than narrative prose, so it seemed like a good task to put my mind to. I managed two others, Aurora Leigh and Idylls of the King—both of them much more story-driven than The Prelude, though not without their philosophical moments and certainly not without poetic perplexities. It was an enriching experience to read these three poems and one of my most gratifying achievements of 2024.
Though my enthusiasm flagged several times—and it ended up taking nearly half a year to finish, from May to October—I enjoyed the poem tremendously. It's a fine blend of exquisite description and philosophical musing. Perhaps predictably, I enjoyed the first few books (in which he recounts his boyhood) most of all. Those are the books that Charlotte Mason gets so much out of, and they are the ones set in his (and her and my) beloved Lake District. It's no surprise that I should find early education and Cumbria more delightful than anything that followed...like abortive university studies and trips to France, including during the Revolution. (But I was surprised to find his treatments of London and Cambridge also fascinating—he has a knack for describing place, even if it's not a sympathetic description.)
I used to resent Wordsworth's insistence on the plainness of poetic language, but now I think his style is wonderfully direct and bracing. Any writer who feels like his words are too convoluted should read 1000 lines of Wordsworth to get it out of his system! And if the problem persists, he should try to write 20 lines in imitation of Wordsworth. (I will keep this self-prescription in mind.)
The coffee-table-book edition that I read from was lavishly illustrated with period paintings. I marveled at these for about the first quarter of the poem—especially the very many housed at the Yale Center for British Art, which I could conceivably visit—but then I got over them. Some well-chosen landscapes and portraits are very helpful, but I don't think my reading benefited from illustrations on virtually every page, especially when they were only tangentially related to the text. The copious illustrations make the dimensions of the book somewhat unwieldy—though on the other hand, there was plenty of room for all the annotations I wanted to make.
This large reading project was part of a general goal to read long poems in 2024. I find narrative poetry much more challenging than narrative prose, so it seemed like a good task to put my mind to. I managed two others, Aurora Leigh and Idylls of the King—both of them much more story-driven than The Prelude, though not without their philosophical moments and certainly not without poetic perplexities. It was an enriching experience to read these three poems and one of my most gratifying achievements of 2024.
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August 23, 2021I read this long poem in the mid 1970s as part of a second year course at university in the poetry of the English romantic movement. Now, almost a half century later, all I can really recall about it is that it was a relatively extended version of self analysis, one which meandered here and there not only geographically, but even more spiritually, morally and philosophically. Right at the beginning, there seemed to be several 'false starts' during which, after a couple of hundred lines of pensive musings, the phrase 'But to my theme!' would be uttered as Wordsworth realized that he'd lost his central focus. This occurred not once, but several times. Is it possible that there simply was no really clear central focus in his mind?
This possibility would seem to gain some credence considering that though beginning the poem in his twenties, when he died around the age of eighty, he still had not published it. Also, he had not even completed it, since it was supposedly only designed to be the introductory section of a much longer work to be entitled The Recluse. The title of The Prelude and the decision to publish it were both made by Wordsworth's widow after his passing.
Should I ever get around to reading this work again, I'll have to procure a different edition, as my unwise juvenile self had the horrible habit of not only underlining passages while I read the book, but of doing so in pen! Such are the regrettable indiscretions of youth. Maybe it was a somewhat similar self-criticism of relatively youthful misjudgements about this work that led to Wordsworth's decision never to publish it during his lifetime.
I wouldn't necessarily recommend it, but I would advise at least trying it with the proviso that it is quite okay to put it aside in the highly likely eventuality that it fails to engage one's sincere interest.
This possibility would seem to gain some credence considering that though beginning the poem in his twenties, when he died around the age of eighty, he still had not published it. Also, he had not even completed it, since it was supposedly only designed to be the introductory section of a much longer work to be entitled The Recluse. The title of The Prelude and the decision to publish it were both made by Wordsworth's widow after his passing.
Should I ever get around to reading this work again, I'll have to procure a different edition, as my unwise juvenile self had the horrible habit of not only underlining passages while I read the book, but of doing so in pen! Such are the regrettable indiscretions of youth. Maybe it was a somewhat similar self-criticism of relatively youthful misjudgements about this work that led to Wordsworth's decision never to publish it during his lifetime.
I wouldn't necessarily recommend it, but I would advise at least trying it with the proviso that it is quite okay to put it aside in the highly likely eventuality that it fails to engage one's sincere interest.
June 20, 2013
Why did it take me so long to come to this book? Wordsworth has been looming large my entire English Literature life, and I've just outright avoided him. 7 years into my degree, I finally read The Prelude and I was astonished and charmed. I loved the first two books, felt liberated by the third - I actually cried realizing that others have experienced the things I've never spoken about - and then. THEN. I came to Book 13, to the end of book 13 - and my imagination got on board, left nature and exalted in the beauty of the mind.
Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak
A lasting inspiration, sanctified
By reason and by truth; what we have loved
Others will love, and we may teach them how:
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells, above this frame of things
(Which, ’mid all revolutions in the hopes
And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged)
In beauty exalted, as it is itself
Of substance and of fabric more divine.
I will read this poem for the rest of my life. Of that I'm sure.
Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak
A lasting inspiration, sanctified
By reason and by truth; what we have loved
Others will love, and we may teach them how:
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells, above this frame of things
(Which, ’mid all revolutions in the hopes
And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged)
In beauty exalted, as it is itself
Of substance and of fabric more divine.
I will read this poem for the rest of my life. Of that I'm sure.
February 23, 2015
I'm afraid I absolutely deplore Wordsworth. As his name would imply, he is a man of many words. WAY TOO MANY WORDS. He loses his reader his 13 BOOKS of verse semi-autobiography. What could have been an interesting and intriguing work turned into a lengthy, diluted, contrived, mess. I completely blame his friend Coleridge for encouraging him in any way. Please avoid at all costs.
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May 15, 2009A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
October 27, 2013
When people saw me reading this everyone would ask "Prelude to WHAT?" after seeing the lengthy poem. This is a hundreds of page long poem about Wordsworth's formative years--he worked on this until his death revising it every few years.
Has anyone ever said that Wordsworth writing an epic length poem about his youth could be viewed as somewhat. . .maybe. . .egocentric? All these stories are laid out to the reader with the express intention to be a lesson to she who reads it.
Actually it comes off as a sort of argument between old Wordsworth and young Wordsworth.
Young W: (long heartbreaking description of country life). . .and then I went to school.
Old W: And what a useless time that was! Kids sticking their noses in books--and half of them prigs at that! I sure was dumb to believe studying could get you anywhere. Kids these days would do a lot better wandering around nature like I did. But there LAZY and SHORT SIGHTED. All the energy is wasted on the young!
Young W: (Long pastoral with beautiful sunsets, walks in darkness ect. . .) And then I went to france.
Old W: AND NOTHING WAS MORE MISERABLE! NEVER TRUST A FRENCHMAN THEY ONLY GIVE YOU SYPHILLIS AND REIGNS OF TERROR. Those bastards sure had me fooled. . .ect. . .ect...ect...
Ok, so this is a bit exaggerated. But in any case Old Wordsworth wins. There are some georgeous parts though--whenever he gets in a story the language loosens up and there's a sense of beauty. I really enjoyed parts of it--but only parts. My first reaction was to think that it would do well to have a condensed version---but on second thought I wonder if I would've found them half as beautiful without the rest of the story to place them in. I don't know.
Has anyone ever said that Wordsworth writing an epic length poem about his youth could be viewed as somewhat. . .maybe. . .egocentric? All these stories are laid out to the reader with the express intention to be a lesson to she who reads it.
Actually it comes off as a sort of argument between old Wordsworth and young Wordsworth.
Young W: (long heartbreaking description of country life). . .and then I went to school.
Old W: And what a useless time that was! Kids sticking their noses in books--and half of them prigs at that! I sure was dumb to believe studying could get you anywhere. Kids these days would do a lot better wandering around nature like I did. But there LAZY and SHORT SIGHTED. All the energy is wasted on the young!
Young W: (Long pastoral with beautiful sunsets, walks in darkness ect. . .) And then I went to france.
Old W: AND NOTHING WAS MORE MISERABLE! NEVER TRUST A FRENCHMAN THEY ONLY GIVE YOU SYPHILLIS AND REIGNS OF TERROR. Those bastards sure had me fooled. . .ect. . .ect...ect...
Ok, so this is a bit exaggerated. But in any case Old Wordsworth wins. There are some georgeous parts though--whenever he gets in a story the language loosens up and there's a sense of beauty. I really enjoyed parts of it--but only parts. My first reaction was to think that it would do well to have a condensed version---but on second thought I wonder if I would've found them half as beautiful without the rest of the story to place them in. I don't know.
April 27, 2024
The Two-Book Prelude is a narrative poem by William Wordsworth that is an autobiographical account of his growing up from childhood up through young adulthood (about age 20).
Most of the poem is about his being outside playing, exploring and experiencing nature. Themes of Creation, nature, solitude, and a slow but definite change that inevitably occurs during a life jumped out to me.
4 stars. While it was rather long it had some moving lines that reminded me some of my own childhood.
While this is a poem, its narrative style makes this similar enough to a short story to mark off on one of my reading challenges.
Most of the poem is about his being outside playing, exploring and experiencing nature. Themes of Creation, nature, solitude, and a slow but definite change that inevitably occurs during a life jumped out to me.
4 stars. While it was rather long it had some moving lines that reminded me some of my own childhood.
While this is a poem, its narrative style makes this similar enough to a short story to mark off on one of my reading challenges.
April 23, 2017
Romantic poetry, especially Wordsworth's poetry, is really beautiful. It takes u to the depth of ur experience of the nature and of the self. Roots of Heideggerian phenomenology, especially in the works of his disciple Wolfgang Iser, and Pre-Freudian theory of human development can be seen in this book. I undoubtedly recommend anyone to read this masterpiece and to ponder over it.
September 29, 2014
I have read and loved The Prelude, but that was years ago, and as I now reread the copy I once read I decided to get this copy instead and get real geeky about it.
May 4, 2021
L'amore per l'uomo e per la natura narrato con una dolcezza unica: versi che non potrò distaccare, nella mia testa e soprattutto nel mio cuore, dalla dolce tromba di Chet Baker... Sono sempre stato un amante della lettura nell'assoluto silenzio, ma per questo libro ho fatto un'eccezione. La dolce melodia ha riempito amorevolmente lo spazio bianco tra un verso e l'altro.
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February 9, 2024Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak
A lasting inspiration, sanctified
By reason and by truth; what we have loved
Others will love, and we may teach them how:
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells, above this frame of things
(Which, ’mid all revolutions in the hopes
And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged)
In beauty exalted, as it is itself
Of substance and of fabric more divine.
A lasting inspiration, sanctified
By reason and by truth; what we have loved
Others will love, and we may teach them how:
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
On which he dwells, above this frame of things
(Which, ’mid all revolutions in the hopes
And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged)
In beauty exalted, as it is itself
Of substance and of fabric more divine.
January 20, 2022
'A tranquillizing spirit presses now
On my corporeal frame: so wide appears
The vacancy between me and those days,
Which yet have such self-presence in my mind
That, sometimes, when I think of them, I seem
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself
And of some other Being.'
//
Books 1 & 2.
On my corporeal frame: so wide appears
The vacancy between me and those days,
Which yet have such self-presence in my mind
That, sometimes, when I think of them, I seem
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself
And of some other Being.'
//
Books 1 & 2.
January 6, 2021
for future reference this definitely needs to be read in a sunny woodland somewhere
December 8, 2021
bestie was in a silly goofy mood
November 10, 2022
Just utterly beautiful. And also one of the most innovative poetic works in literary history. However boring his lacklustre portraits and his long miserable life may seem, Wordsworth is a rare poet that will make you cry at the complexity of your own being, and not for its faults —as many reflective poets tend to do— but rather its beauty, the “grandeur in the beatings of the heart”.
September 4, 2023
«oh, then, the calm
And dead still water lay upon my mind
Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky,
Never before so beautiful, sank down
Into my heart, and held me like a dream!» (ii, 176-180)
«My morning walks
Were early; - oft before the hours of school
I travelled round our little lake, five miles
Of pleasant wandering. Happy time! more dear
For this, that one was by my side, a Friend
Then passionately loved; with heart how full
Will he peruse these lines, this page, perhaps
A blank to other men! For many years
Have since flowed in between us, and our minds
Both silent to each other, at this time
We live as if those hours had never been.» (ii, 348-358)
«I was only then
Contented, when with bliss ineffable
I felt the sentiment of Being spread
O’er all that moves, and all that seemeth still;
O’er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought
And human knowledge, to the human eye
Invisible, yet liveth to the heart;
O’er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings,
Or beats the gladsome air; o’er all that glides
Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself
And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not
If such my transports were; for in all things
I saw one life, and felt that it was joy.
One song they sang, and it was audible
Most audible then when the fleshly ear,
O’ercome by grosser prelude of that strain,
Forgot its functions, and slept undisturbed.» (ii 418-434)
«Questions, directions, counsel and advice,
Flowed in upon me from all sides. Fresh day
Of pride and pleasure!» (iii, 21-23)
«Magnificent
The morning was, a memorable pomp,
More glorious than I ever had beheld.
The sea was laughing at a distance; all
The solid mountains were as bright as clouds,
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn –
Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds,
And labourers going forth into the fields.» (iv, 330-339)
«A favourite pleasure hath it been with me
From time of earliest youth, to walk alone
Along the public way, when, for the night
Deserted, in its silence it assumes
A character of deeper quietness
Than pathless solitudes. At such an hour
Once, ere these summer months were passed away,
I slowly mounted up a steep ascent
Where the road's watery surface, to the ridge
Of that sharp rising, glittered in the moon
And seemed before my eyes another stream
Creeping with silent lapse to join the brook
That murmured in the valley.» (iv, 363-375)
«There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander! – many a time
At evening, when the stars had just 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 mirth and jocund din; and when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mocked his 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.» (v, 381-413)
«I had a precious treasure at that time,
A little yellow, canvas-covered book,
A slender abstract of the Arabian tales;
And when I learned, as now I first did learn,
From my companions in this new abode,
That this dear prize of mine was but a block
Hewn from a mighty quarry – in a word,
That there were four large volumes, laden all
With kindred matter, ‘twas, in truth, to me
A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly
I made a league, a covenant with a friend
Of my own age, that we should lay aside
The money we possessed, and hoard up more,
Till our joint savings had amassed enough
To make this book our own. Through several months
Religiously did we preserve that vow,
And spite of all temptation, hoarded up
And hoarded up; but firmness failed at length,
Nor were we ever masters of our wish.» (v, 482-500)
«when, having climbed
In danger through some window’s open space,
230 We looked abroad, or on the turret’s head
Lay listening to the wild flowers and the grass
As they gave out their whispers to the wind.» (vi, 228-232)
«That day we first
Beheld the summit of Mont Blanc, and grieved
To have a soulless image on the eye
Which had usurped upon a living thought
That never more could be. The wondrous Vale
Of Chamouny did on the following dawn,
With its dumb cataracts and streams of ice,
A motionless array of mighty waves,
Five rivers broad and vast, make rich amends,
And reconciled us to realities;
There small birds warble from the leafy trees,
The eagle soareth in the element,
There does the reaper bind the yellow sheaf,
The maiden spread the haycock in the sun,
While Winter like a tamèd lion walks,
Descending from the mountain to make sport
Among the cottages by beds of flowers.» (vi, 453-468)
«for thought
Unfilial, or unkind, had never once
Found harbour in his breast.» (ix, 714-716)
«like a brook
That does but cross a lonely road; and now
Seen, heard and felt, and caught at every turn,
Companion never lost through many a league.» (x, 911-914)
«The lordly Alps themselves,
Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning looks
Abroad on many nations, are not now
Since thy migration and departure, Friend,
The gladsome image in my memory
Which they were used to be.» (x, 991-996)
«But much was wanting: therefore did I turn
To you, ye pathways, and ye lonely roads;
Sought you enriched with everything I prized,
With human kindness and with Nature’s joy.» (xii, 123-126)
«I love a public road: few sights there are
That please me more; such object hath had power
O’er my imagination since the dawn
Of childhood, when its disappearing line,
Seen daily afar off, on one bare steep
Beyond the limits which my feet had trod,
Was like a guide into eternity,
At least to things unknown and without bound.» (xii, 145-152)
«When thou dost to that summer turn thy thoughts,
And hast before thee all which then we were,
To thee, in memory of that happiness,
It will be known, by thee at least, my friend!
Felt, that the history of a Poet’s mind
Is labour not unworthy of regard:
To thee the work shall justify itself.» (xiii, 404-410)
And dead still water lay upon my mind
Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky,
Never before so beautiful, sank down
Into my heart, and held me like a dream!» (ii, 176-180)
«My morning walks
Were early; - oft before the hours of school
I travelled round our little lake, five miles
Of pleasant wandering. Happy time! more dear
For this, that one was by my side, a Friend
Then passionately loved; with heart how full
Will he peruse these lines, this page, perhaps
A blank to other men! For many years
Have since flowed in between us, and our minds
Both silent to each other, at this time
We live as if those hours had never been.» (ii, 348-358)
«I was only then
Contented, when with bliss ineffable
I felt the sentiment of Being spread
O’er all that moves, and all that seemeth still;
O’er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought
And human knowledge, to the human eye
Invisible, yet liveth to the heart;
O’er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings,
Or beats the gladsome air; o’er all that glides
Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself
And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not
If such my transports were; for in all things
I saw one life, and felt that it was joy.
One song they sang, and it was audible
Most audible then when the fleshly ear,
O’ercome by grosser prelude of that strain,
Forgot its functions, and slept undisturbed.» (ii 418-434)
«Questions, directions, counsel and advice,
Flowed in upon me from all sides. Fresh day
Of pride and pleasure!» (iii, 21-23)
«Magnificent
The morning was, a memorable pomp,
More glorious than I ever had beheld.
The sea was laughing at a distance; all
The solid mountains were as bright as clouds,
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn –
Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds,
And labourers going forth into the fields.» (iv, 330-339)
«A favourite pleasure hath it been with me
From time of earliest youth, to walk alone
Along the public way, when, for the night
Deserted, in its silence it assumes
A character of deeper quietness
Than pathless solitudes. At such an hour
Once, ere these summer months were passed away,
I slowly mounted up a steep ascent
Where the road's watery surface, to the ridge
Of that sharp rising, glittered in the moon
And seemed before my eyes another stream
Creeping with silent lapse to join the brook
That murmured in the valley.» (iv, 363-375)
«There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander! – many a time
At evening, when the stars had just 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 mirth and jocund din; and when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mocked his 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.» (v, 381-413)
«I had a precious treasure at that time,
A little yellow, canvas-covered book,
A slender abstract of the Arabian tales;
And when I learned, as now I first did learn,
From my companions in this new abode,
That this dear prize of mine was but a block
Hewn from a mighty quarry – in a word,
That there were four large volumes, laden all
With kindred matter, ‘twas, in truth, to me
A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly
I made a league, a covenant with a friend
Of my own age, that we should lay aside
The money we possessed, and hoard up more,
Till our joint savings had amassed enough
To make this book our own. Through several months
Religiously did we preserve that vow,
And spite of all temptation, hoarded up
And hoarded up; but firmness failed at length,
Nor were we ever masters of our wish.» (v, 482-500)
«when, having climbed
In danger through some window’s open space,
230 We looked abroad, or on the turret’s head
Lay listening to the wild flowers and the grass
As they gave out their whispers to the wind.» (vi, 228-232)
«That day we first
Beheld the summit of Mont Blanc, and grieved
To have a soulless image on the eye
Which had usurped upon a living thought
That never more could be. The wondrous Vale
Of Chamouny did on the following dawn,
With its dumb cataracts and streams of ice,
A motionless array of mighty waves,
Five rivers broad and vast, make rich amends,
And reconciled us to realities;
There small birds warble from the leafy trees,
The eagle soareth in the element,
There does the reaper bind the yellow sheaf,
The maiden spread the haycock in the sun,
While Winter like a tamèd lion walks,
Descending from the mountain to make sport
Among the cottages by beds of flowers.» (vi, 453-468)
«for thought
Unfilial, or unkind, had never once
Found harbour in his breast.» (ix, 714-716)
«like a brook
That does but cross a lonely road; and now
Seen, heard and felt, and caught at every turn,
Companion never lost through many a league.» (x, 911-914)
«The lordly Alps themselves,
Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning looks
Abroad on many nations, are not now
Since thy migration and departure, Friend,
The gladsome image in my memory
Which they were used to be.» (x, 991-996)
«But much was wanting: therefore did I turn
To you, ye pathways, and ye lonely roads;
Sought you enriched with everything I prized,
With human kindness and with Nature’s joy.» (xii, 123-126)
«I love a public road: few sights there are
That please me more; such object hath had power
O’er my imagination since the dawn
Of childhood, when its disappearing line,
Seen daily afar off, on one bare steep
Beyond the limits which my feet had trod,
Was like a guide into eternity,
At least to things unknown and without bound.» (xii, 145-152)
«When thou dost to that summer turn thy thoughts,
And hast before thee all which then we were,
To thee, in memory of that happiness,
It will be known, by thee at least, my friend!
Felt, that the history of a Poet’s mind
Is labour not unworthy of regard:
To thee the work shall justify itself.» (xiii, 404-410)
March 6, 2014
blurbs - William Wordsworth's autobiographical poem The Prelude is arguably the most important piece of poetic writing in our language. Recorded in Wordsworth's home in Grasmere, Cumbria, Wordsworth looks back over events in his early life .
Wordsworth believed that poetry should be written in the natural language of common speech, and in that way it was revolutionary in its time.
Parts of the poem are famous, with lines quoted often such as the description of the young Wordsworth stealing a boat. Other parts are more introspective. The young poet leaves Grasmere to go to University in Cambridge, and is homesick. Wordsworth grapples with his political feelings - travelling to France at the time of the French revolution. He enjoys the hustle and bustle of London, and is euphoric when crossing the Alps. All the time this poem is accessible, bursting with colour and description, full of gripping storytelling.
The Prelude is read by Sir Ian McKellen with specially composed music by John Harle, performed by John Harle on Saxophone and Neill MacColl on guitar.
The Prelude is directed in Manchester by Susan Roberts.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
November 5, 2011
I love this edition. The facing-page versions of both 1805 and 1850 are so handy and useful, making it so easy to see how one publication differed from the other. Like so many others I imagine, I'm in love with the 1805 version. Still, I was glad to have the 1850 immediately next to the 1805, in order to make that distinction for myself. I had read the 1805 this past summer and am now reading it again more closely. It's clear to me that this work was/is of major importance. If anything could indicate proof of the divine in Nature, it's Wordsworth's Prelude. "Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze..."
October 17, 2013
I like a lot of Wordsworth's poetry, and this is my second time reading The Prelude, and it's still a bit of a slog to get through for me. There are beautiful, lovely passages, but then a lot of trudging through rambly boring ones that make me sleepy. Wordsworth's got a special place in my heart though. Will always love Tintern Abbey.
March 11, 2017
The ideas behind it are cooler than the actual verse.
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August 3, 20171799'lusu :)
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