Selected prose and poetry

Dorothy Wordsworth (1771–1855)
Biography: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/dorothy-wordsworth

From her Journal, written at Grasmere, April 15, 1802

Thursday, 15th.—It was a threatening, misty morning, but mild. We set off after dinner from Eusemere. Mrs. Clarkson went a short way with us, but turned back. The wind was furious, and we thought we must have returned. We first rested in the large boathouse, then under a furze bush opposite Mr. Clarkson’s. Saw the plough going in the field. The wind seized our breath. The lake was rough. There was a boat by itself floating in the middle of the bay below Water Millock. We rested again in the Water Millock Lane. The hawthorns are black and green, the birches here and there greenish, but there is yet more of purple to be seen on the twigs. We got over into a field to avoid some cows — people working. A few primroses by the roadside — woodsorrel flower, the anemone, scentless violets, strawberries, and that starry, yellow flower which Mrs. C. calls pile wort. When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils close to the water-side. We fancied that the sea had floated the seeds ashore, and that the little colony had so sprung up. But as we went along there were more and yet more; and at last, under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about and above them; some rested their heads upon these stones, as on a pillow, for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, that blew upon them over the lake; they looked so gay, ever glancing, ever changing. This wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here and there a little knot, and a few stragglers higher up; but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity, unity, and life of that one busy highway. We rested again and again. The bays were stormy, and we heard the waves at different distances, and in the middle of the water, like the sea. … All was cheerless and gloomy, so we faced the storm.^[1]

“Floating Island” (1829)

Harmonious Powers with Nature work

On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea:

Sunshine and storm, whirlwind and breeze

All in one duteous task agree.

Once did I see a slip of earth,[5]

By throbbing waves long undermined,

Loosed from its hold; — how no one knew

But all might see it float, obedient to the wind.

Might see it, from the mossy shore

Dissevered float upon the Lake,[10]

Float, with its crest of trees adorned

On which the warbling birds their pastime take.

Food, shelter, safety there they find

There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;

There insects live their lives — and die:[15]

A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room.

And thus through many seasons’ space

This little Island may survive

But Nature, though we mark her not,

Will take away — may cease to give.[20]

Perchance when you are wandering forth

Upon some vacant sunny day

Without an object, hope, or fear,

Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is passed away.

Buried beneath the glittering Lake![25]

Its place no longer to be found,

Yet the lost fragments shall remain,

To fertilize some other ground.^[2]

“Thoughts on My Sick-Bed” (1832)

And has the remnant of my life

Been pilfered of this sunny spring?

And have its own prelusive sounds

Touched in my heart no echoing string?

Ah! say not so—the hidden life[5]

Couchant within this feeble frame

Hath been enriched by kindred gifts,

That, undesired, unsought-for, came

With joyful heart in youthful days

When fresh each season in its round[10]

I welcomed the earliest celandine

Glittering upon the mossy ground;

With busy eyes I piereced the lane

In quest of known and unknown things,

— The primrose a lamp on its fortress rock,[15]

The silent butterfly spreading its wings,

The violet betrayed by its noiseless breath,

The daffodil dancing in the breeze,

The carolling thrush, on his naked perch,

Towering above the building trees.[20]

Our cottage-hearth no longer our home,

Companions of nature were we,

The stirring, the still, the loquacious, the mute —

To all we gave our sympathy.

Yet never in those careless days[25]

When spring-time in rock, field, or bower

Was but a foundation of earthly hope

A promise of fruits and the splendid flower.

No! then I never felt a bliss

That might with that compare[30]

Which, piercing to my couch of rest,

Came on the vernal air.

When loving friends an offering brought,

The first flowers of the year,

Culled from the precincts of our home,[35]

From nooks to memory dear.

With some sad thoughts the work was done,

Unprompted and unbidden,

But joy it brought to my hidden life,

To consciousness no longer hidden.[40]

I felt a power unfelt before,

Controling weakness, languor, pain;

It bore me to the terrace walk

I trod the hills again; —

No prisoner in this lonely room.[45]

I saw the green banks of the Wye,

Recalling the prophetic words,

Bard, brother, friend from infancy!

No need of motion, or of strength,

Or even the breathing air:[50]

— I thought of nature’s loveliest scenes;

And with memory I was there.^[3]