Tenets Of Wordsworth In Resolution And Independence — страница 2

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resurface.Another Romantic tenet is the reconciliation of differences to make a point. Wordsworth wanted to stress his “dejection” by writing:And fears and fancies thick upon me came;Dim sadness-blind thought, I knew not, nor could name. (25, 27-9)Thought makes a Romantic poet happy (which is another tenet of Romanticism), and a blind man can not distinguish between any two levels of dimness. Hence, the usage of these contrasting points helps convince the reader that Wordsworth is ill at ease. His point is made and well understood, thus making this a good literary technique. In conclusion, the poet is suffering from dejection without a cause. Wordsworth is strangely not at ease. He searches nature for an answer, but nature does not bring reconciliation to his distraught

emotions. The poet has an overwhelming feeling of angst. Upon seeing the old man, Wordsworth is given a new hope for a way to gain the inner peace that he has been looking for. The old man serves as a role model for Wordsworth. Resolution and Independence1There was a roaring in the wind all nightThe rain came in heavy floods;But now the sun is rising calm and bright;The birds are singing in the distant woods;Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters2All things that love the sun are out of doors;The sky rejoices in the morning’s birth;The grass is bright with rain-drops; -on the moorsThe hare is running races in her mirth;And with her feet she from the plashy earthRaises a

mist; that, glittering in the sun,Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.3I was a Traveller then upon the moorI saw the hare that raced about with joy;I heard the woods and distant waters roar;Or heard them not, as happy as a boy;The pleasant season did my heart employ;My old remembrances went from me wholly;And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy4But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the mightOf joy in minds that can no further go,As high as we have mounted in delightIn our dejection do we sink as low;To me that morning did happen so;And fears and fancies thick upon me came;Dim sadness-blind thought, I knew not, nor could name.5I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;And I bethought me of the playful hare;Even such a happy Child of earth am I;Even as these

blissful creatures do I fare;Far from the world I walk, and from all care;But there may come another day to me-Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.6My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,As if life’s business were a summer mood;As if all needful things would come unsoughtTo genial faith, still rich in genial good;But how can He expect that others shouldBuild for him, sow for him, and at his callLove him, who for himself will take no heed at all?7I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;Of him who walked in glory and in joyFollowing his plough, along the mountain-side;By our own spirits we are deified;We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.8Now, whether it

were by peculiar grace,A leading from above, a something given,Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,Beside a pool bare to the eye of heavenI saw a Man before me unawares:The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.9As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lieCouched on the bald top of an eminence;Wonder to all who do the same espy,By what means it could thither come, and whence;So that it seems a thing endued with sense:Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelfOf rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;10Such seemed this Man. Not all alive nor dead,Nor all asleep-in his extreme old age:His body was bent double, feet and headComing together in life’s pilgrimage;As if some dire constraint of pain, or rageOf sickness

felt by him in times long past,A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.11Himself he propped, limbs, body, and a pale face,Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood:And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,Upon the margin of that moorish floodMotionless as a cloud the old Man stoodThat heareth not the loud winds when they call;And moveth all together, if it move at all12At length, himself unsettling, he the pondStirred with his staff, and fixedly did lookUpon the muddy water, which he conned,As if he had been reading a book:And now a stranger’s privilege I took;And drawing to his side, to him I did say,”This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.”13A gentle answer did the old Man make,In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: And him with further words I