I did say once that right after Jesus I really want to meet Wordsworth someday.
(I'm pretty sure I still mean that.)
William Wordsworth, like Coleridge, Blake, Keats and others is one of the Romantics. And not just one of them, but was key in bringing about and defining the movement. Have I mentioned I've got a thing for these guys? They set out to dissemble the previous notions of structure and specifically questioned religion and what part it plays in a world that, as Darwin was just discovering, was subject to natural laws. They had this idea that all you needed to teach a child was this natural world around you. And they put thought, feeling and intuition ahead of the "rules" of society.
Yes, Wordsworth was a rock-star.
Most of Wordsworth's pieces are quite lengthy. I went for two of his shorter pieces today. They both remind me to keep my priorities in check and to stop and smell the roses every now and then.
(I'm pretty sure I still mean that.)
William Wordsworth, like Coleridge, Blake, Keats and others is one of the Romantics. And not just one of them, but was key in bringing about and defining the movement. Have I mentioned I've got a thing for these guys? They set out to dissemble the previous notions of structure and specifically questioned religion and what part it plays in a world that, as Darwin was just discovering, was subject to natural laws. They had this idea that all you needed to teach a child was this natural world around you. And they put thought, feeling and intuition ahead of the "rules" of society.
Yes, Wordsworth was a rock-star.
Most of Wordsworth's pieces are quite lengthy. I went for two of his shorter pieces today. They both remind me to keep my priorities in check and to stop and smell the roses every now and then.
The world is too much with us
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
| Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 | | |
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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