April 7 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
Nature Guided His Pen
Wordsworth was so closely in touch with Nature that the simple beauty of flowers, woods, and fields is reflected in his poems as if Nature herself took up the pen and wrote.
- Wordsworth born April 7, 1770.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
Poems
William Wordsworth
Page 639 opens with the close of “Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey”; the reading starts with the next poem, “The Daffodils,” on the same page.
377 The Daffodils
I WANDER’D lonely as a cloudThat 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 treesFluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretch’d in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company!I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought;
For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
378 To the Daisy
WITH little here to do or seeOf things that in the great world be,Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to theeFor thou art worthy,Thou unassuming commonplaceOf Nature, with that homely face,And yet with something of a graceWhich love makes for thee!
Oft on the dappled turf at easeI sit and play with similes,Loose types of things through all degrees,Thoughts of thy raising;And many a fond and idle nameI give to thee, for praise or blameAs is the humour of the game,While I am gazing.
A nun demure, of lowly port;Or sprightly maiden, of Love’s court,In thy simplicity the sportOf all temptations;A queen in crown of rubies drest;A starveling in a scanty vest;Are all, as seems to suit thee best,Thy appellations.
A little Cyclops, with one eyeStaring to threaten and defy,That thought comes next—and instantlyThe freak is over,The shape will vanish, and behold!A silver shield with boss of goldThat spreads itself, some fairy boldIn fight to cover.
I see thee glittering from afar—And then thou art a pretty star,Not quite so fair as many areIn heaven above thee!Yet like a star, with glittering crest,Self-poised in air thou seem’st to rest;—May peace come never to his nestWho shall reprove thee!
Sweet Flower! for by that name at lastWhen all my reveries are past,I call thee, and to that cleave fast,Sweet silent Creature!That breath’st with me in sun and air,Do thou, as thou art wont, repairMy heart with gladness, and a shareOf thy meek nature!
379 To the Cuckoo
O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice:O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near.
Though babbling only to the valeOf sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy daysI listen’d to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still long’d for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.
O blesséd Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, fairy place,That is fit home for Thee!
380 The Green Linnet
BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shedTheir snow-white blossoms on my head,With brightest sunshine round me spreadOf Spring’s unclouded weather,In this sequester’d nook how sweetTo sit upon my orchard-seat!And flowers and birds once more to greet,My last year’s friends together.
One have I mark’d, the happiest guestIn all this covert of the blest:Hail to Thee, far above the restIn joy of voice and pinion!Thou, Linnet! in thy green arrayPresiding Spirit here to-dayDost lead the revels of the May,And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,Make all one band of paramours,Thou, ranging up and down the bowersArt sole in thy employment;A Life, a Presence like the air,Scattering thy gladness without care,Too blest with any one to pair,Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel treesThat twinkle to the gusty breeze,Behold him perch’d in ecstasiesYet seeming still to hover;There, where the flutter of his wingsUpon his back and body flingsShadows and sunny glimmerings,That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives—A brother of the dancing leaves;Then flits, and from the cottage-eavesPours forth his song in gushes,As if by that exulting strainHe mock’d and treated with disdainThe voiceless Form he chose to feign,While fluttering in the bushes.
381 Written in Early Spring
I HEARD a thousand blended notesWhile in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat Man has made of Man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,The periwinkle trail’d its wreaths;And ’tis my faith that every flowerEnjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp’d and play’d,Their thoughts I cannot measure,—But the least motion which they madeIt seem’d a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fanTo catch the breezy air;And I must think, do all I can,That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,If such be Nature’s holy plan,Have I not reason to lamentWhat Man has made of Man?
382 To the Skylark
ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eyeBoth with thy nest upon the dewy ground?Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
To the last point of vision, and beyondMount, daring warbler!—that love-prompted strain—’Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond—Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:Yet might’st thou seem, proud privilege! to singAll independent of the leafy Spring.
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;A privacy of glorious light is thine,Whence thou dost pour upon the world a floodOf harmony, with instinct more divine;Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam—True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
383 The Affliction of Margaret
WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,Where art thou, worse to me than dead!O find me, prosperous or undone!Or if the grave be now thy bed,Why am I ignorant of the sameThat I may rest; and neither blameNor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas! to have receivedNo tidings of an only child—To have despair’d, 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 forthIngenuous, innocent, and bold:If things ensued that wanted graceAs hath been said, they were not base;And never blush was on my face.
Ah! little doth the young-one dreamWhen full of play and childish cares,What power is in his wildest screamHeard 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 suffer’d longFrom that ill thought; and being blindSaid ‘Pride shall help me in my wrong:Kind mother have I been, as kindAs 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,O! 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 despiseAnd 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 bringsThe wanderers back to their delight!Chains tie us down by land and sea;And wishes, vain as mine, may beAll that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groanMaim’d, mangled by inhuman men;Or thou upon a desert thrownInheritest the lion’s den;Or hast been summon’d to the deepThou, thou, and all thy mates, to keepAn incommunicable sleep.
I look for ghosts; but none will forceTheir way to me: ’tis falsely saidThat there was ever intercourseBetween the living and the dead;For surely then I should have sightOf him I wait for day and nightWith love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds;I dread the rustling of the grass;The very shadows of the cloudsHave power to shake me as they pass;I question things, and do not findOne that will answer to my mind;And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lieMy troubles, and beyond relief:If any chance to heave a sighThey pity me, and not my grief.Then come to me, my Son, or sendSome tidings that my woes may end!I have no other earthly friend.
384 Simon Lee the Old Huntsman
IN the sweet shire of Cardigan,Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,An old man dwells, a little man,I’ve heard he once was tall.Full five-and-thirty years he livedA running huntsman merry;And still the centre of his cheekIs red as a ripe cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,And hill and valley rang with glee,When Echo bandied, round and round,The halloo of Simon Lee.In those proud days he little caredFor husbandry or tillage;To blither tasks did Simon rouseThe sleepers of the village.
He all the country could outrun,Could leave both man and horse behind;And often, ere the chase was done,He reel’d and was stone-blind.And still there’s something in the worldAt which his heart rejoices;For when the chiming hounds are out,He dearly loves their voices.
But O the heavy change!—bereftOf health, strength, friends and kindred; seeOld Simon to the world is leftIn liveried poverty:His master’s dead, and no one nowDwells in the Hall of Ivor;Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;He is the sole survivor.
And he is lean and he is sick,His body, dwindled and awry,Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;His legs are thin and dry.He has no son, he has no child,His wife, an aged woman,Lives with him, near the waterfall,Upon the village common.
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,Not twenty paces from the door,A scrap of land they have, but theyAre poorest of the poor.This scrap of land he from the heathEnclosed when he was stronger;But what avails the land to themWhich he can till no longer?
Oft, working by her husband’s side,Ruth does what Simon cannot do;For she, with scanty cause for pride,Is stouter of the two.And, though you with your utmost skillFrom labour could not wean them,’Tis little, very little, allThat they can do between them.
Few months of life has he in storeAs he to you will tell,For still, the more he works, the moreDo his weak ankles swell.My gentle reader, I perceiveHow patiently you’ve waited,And now I fear that you expectSome tale will be related.
O reader! had you in your mindSuch stores as silent thought can bring,O gentle reader! you would findA tale in everything.What more I have to say is short,And you must kindly take it:It is no tale; but, should you think,Perhaps a tale you’ll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to seeThis old man doing all he couldTo unearth the root of an old tree,A stump of rotten wood.The mattock totter’d in his hand;So vain was his endeavourThat at the root of the old treeHe might have work’d for ever.
‘You’re overtask’d, good Simon Lee,Give me your tool,’ to him I said;And at the word right gladly heReceived my proffer’d aid.I struck, and with a single blowThe tangled root I sever’d,At which the poor old man so longAnd vainly had endeavour’d.
The tears into his eyes were brought,And thanks and praises seem’d to runSo fast out of his heart, I thoughtThey never would have done.—I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deedsWith coldness still returning;Alas! the gratitude of menHath oftener left me mourning.
385 Ode to Duty
STERN Daughter of the voice of God!O Duty! if that name thou loveWho art a light to guide, a rodTo check the erring, and reprove;Thou who art victory and lawWhen empty terrors overawe;From vain temptations dost set free,And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eyeBe on them; who, in love and truthWhere no misgiving is, relyUpon the genial sense of youth:Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,Who do thy work, and know it not:O! if through confidence misplacedThey fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and brightAnd happy will our nature beWhen love is an unerring light,And joy its own security.And they a blissful course may holdEv’n now, who, not unwisely bold,Live in the spirit of this creed;Yet find that other strength according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried,No sport of every random gust,Yet being to myself a guide,Too blindly have reposed my trust:And oft, when in my heart was heardThy timely mandate, I deferr’dThe task, in smoother walks to stray;But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soulOr strong compunction in me wrought,I supplicate for thy controul,But in the quietness of thought:Me this uncharter’d freedom tires;I feel the weight of chance-desires:My hopes no more must change their name;I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wearThe Godhead’s most benignant grace;Nor know we anything so fairAs is the smile upon thy face:Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,And fragrance in thy footing treads;Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!I call thee: I myself commendUnto thy guidance from this hour;O let my weakness have an end!Give unto me, made lowly wise,The spirit of self-sacrifice;The confidence of reason give;And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live.
386 She Was a Phantom of Delight
SHE was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleam’d upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment’s ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,A spirit, yet a woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin-liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature’s daily food,For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveller between life and death:The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect woman, nobly plann’dTo warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light.
The last stanza of “She Was a Phantom of Delight” is printed at the top of page 652; it is included so the poem is read whole.
Volume 41, pages 639–651 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for April 7 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition), page 43. There the assignment reads “Vol. 41, pp. 639–651.” Read it in the guide.