On this date in 1799, William Wordsworth moved into Dove
Cottage, the home where, through "plain living and high thinking," he
was to write his greatest works.
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves
And made a hidden valley of their own
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves
And made a hidden valley of their own
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a struggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that simple object appertains
A story—unenriched with strange events
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade.
Appears a struggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that simple object appertains
A story—unenriched with strange events
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade.
William Wordsworth, from "Michael, A Pastoral
Poem"
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