A Poet whose lines linger and last

William Wordsworth died this day the April 23, in 1850 having lived a full and glorious life of over 80 years. He was one of the most celebrated English poets, who together with fellow poet Samuel Coleridge, led the romantic movement in English poetry. Together they wrote ‘Lyrical Ballads’ in 1798 which is even today considered the most outstanding testament of the best of the fabled romantic era.

‘Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings; it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility’, wrote he. His poetry distills so beautifully and so lyrically the best that one could synthesize of nature’s pulchritude and tranquility; human emotion and ecstasy.

Creator of such immortal poems like, ‘Lucy Grey’, ‘I wandered lonely as a Cloud’, and “She dwelt among the Untrodden Ways’, his masterpiece, many believe, however, is the auto-biographical ‘The Prelude’ published posthumously and addressed to his friend and compatriot Coleridge.

Those of us who were introduced to English literature in our school days in 50s, 60s and 70s, can never fail to recall the eloquent images describing the Daffodils- captivating, calming, comforting, mesmerizing:

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That 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 trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

If his lively and lucid portrayal of animate elements of nature were musical, his literary illustrations of inanimate objects were as melodious. This “Daffodils” poet once penned a memorable account of The Westminster Bridge- not so much about the old bridge itself, but the view from it.

The Westminster Bridge is perhaps as iconic as the Westminster system of governance, but till the end of 17th century, the city of London was served only by river transport plying on the Thames- a huge business those days whose greatest beneficiary was the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Head of Church of England, who owned more than 80% of the ferry services.

It took almost a century before a proposal to erect a bridge across Thames could materialise, as it continued to be scuppered by the interested parties including the then King Charles II. Eventually a proposal mooted in 1664 received the royal approval in 1736. The bridge got completed and opened in 1750. Sadly, the original bridge predictably began to subside within 100 years and had to be rebuilt anew in 1862.

Wordsworth was on his way with his sister, Dorothy, to France. She wrote in her journal in 1802: “We left London on Saturday morning at half past 5 or 6, the 31st July [and] we mounted the Dover Coach at Charing Cross. It was a beautiful morning. The City, St Pauls, with the River & a multitude of little Boats, made a most beautiful sight as we crossed Westminster Bridge.

“The houses were not overhung by their [usual] cloud of smoke & they were spread out endlessly, yet the sun shone so brightly with such a pure light that there was even something like the purity of one of nature’s own grand Spectacles.”

Brother William could not resist composing a poem about it, which became one of his most famous and popular works:

“Upon Westminster Bridge”
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!

William Wordsworth became the poet laureate of England in 1843 till his death in 1850 at the age of 80; and was succeeded by another all-time great, Alfred Lord Tennyson who continued for next 42 years till 1892.

“Life is divided into three terms – that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present, to live better in the future.”

Could there be a simpler philosophy of life, expressed so simply? Coming from a man whose own life was so syncretic of nature, beauty and sensitivity, and one who so brilliantly and so eloquently symbolised the best of romanticism, it is comforting and calming.