by Name
by Date
by Title
by First Line
by Last Line
Poet
Poem
Short poem
Keyword
Concordance

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

The Prelude: Book 2: School-time (Continued)


              1Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much
              2Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace
              3My life through its first years, and measured back
              4The way I travell'd when I first began
              5To love the woods and fields; the passion yet
              6Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befal,
              7By nourishment that came unsought, for still,
              8From week to week, from month to month, we liv'd
              9A round of tumult: duly were our games
            10Prolong'd in summer till the day-light fail'd;
            11No chair remain'd before the doors, the bench
            12And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep
            13The Labourer, and the old Man who had sate,
            14A later lingerer, yet the revelry
            15Continued, and the loud uproar: at last,
            16When all the ground was dark, and the huge clouds
            17Were edged with twinkling stars, to bed we went,
            18With weary joints, and with a beating mind.
            19Ah! is there one who ever has been young,
            20Nor needs a monitory voice to tame
            21The pride of virtue, and of intellect?
            22And is there one, the wisest and the best
            23Of all mankind, who does not sometimes wish
            24For things which cannot be, who would not give,
            25If so he might, to duty and to truth
            26The eagerness of infantine desire?
            27A tranquillizing spirit presses now
            28On my corporeal frame: so wide appears
            29The vacancy between me and those days,
            30Which yet have such self-presence in my mind
            31That, sometimes, when I think of them, I seem
            32Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself
            33And of some other Being. A grey Stone
            34Of native rock, left midway in the Square
            35Of our small market Village, was the home
            36And centre of these joys, and when, return'd
            37After long absence, thither I repair'd,
            38I found that it was split, and gone to build
            39A smart Assembly-room that perk'd and flar'd
            40With wash and rough-cast elbowing the ground
            41Which had been ours. But let the fiddle scream,
            42And be ye happy! yet, my Friends! I know
            43That more than one of you will think with me
            44Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame
            45From whom the stone was nam'd who there had sate
            46And watch'd her Table with its huckster's wares
            47Assiduous, thro' the length of sixty years.

            48     We ran a boisterous race; the year span round
            49With giddy motion. But the time approach'd
            50That brought with it a regular desire
            51For calmer pleasures, when the beauteous forms
            52Of Nature were collaterally attach'd
            53To every scheme of holiday delight,
            54And every boyish sport, less grateful else,
            55And languidly pursued.

            55                                     When summer came
            56It was the pastime of our afternoons
            57To beat along the plain of Windermere
            58With rival oars, and the selected bourne
            59Was now an Island musical with birds
            60That sang for ever; now a Sister Isle
            61Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown
            62With lillies of the valley, like a field;
            63And now a third small Island where remain'd
            64An old stone Table, and a moulder'd Cave,
            65A Hermit's history. In such a race,
            66So ended, disappointment could be none,
            67Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:
            68We rested in the shade, all pleas'd alike,
            69Conquer'd and Conqueror. Thus the pride of strength,
            70And the vain-glory of superior skill
            71Were interfus'd with objects which subdu'd
            72And temper'd them, and gradually produc'd
            73A quiet independence of the heart.
            74And to my Friend, who knows me, I may add,
            75Unapprehensive of reproof, that hence
            76Ensu'd a diffidence and modesty,
            77And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much,
            78The self-sufficing power of solitude.

            79     No delicate viands sapp'd our bodily strength;
            80More than we wish'd we knew the blessing then
            81Of vigorous hunger, for our daily meals
            82Were frugal, Sabine fare! and then, exclude
            83A little weekly stipend, and we lived
            84Through three divisions of the quarter'd year
            85In pennyless poverty. But now, to School
            86Return'd, from the half-yearly holidays,
            87We came with purses more profusely fill'd,
            88Allowance which abundantly suffic'd
            89To gratify the palate with repasts
            90More costly than the Dame of whom I spake,
            91That ancient Woman, and her board supplied.
            92Hence inroads into distant Vales, and long
            93Excursions far away among the hills,
            94Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground,
            95Or in the woods, or near a river side,
            96Or by some shady fountain, while soft airs
            97Among the leaves were stirring, and the sun
            98Unfelt, shone sweetly round us in our joy.

            99     Nor is my aim neglected, if I tell
          100How twice in the long length of those half-years
          101We from our funds, perhaps, with bolder hand
          102Drew largely, anxious for one day, at least,
          103To feel the motion of the galloping Steed;
          104And with the good old Inn-keeper, in truth,
          105On such occasion sometimes we employ'd
          106Sly subterfuge; for the intended bound
          107Of the day's journey was too distant far
          108For any cautious man, a Structure famed
          109Beyond its neighbourhood, the antique Walls
          110Of that large Abbey which within the vale
          111Of Nightshade, to St. Mary's honour built,
          112Stands yet, a mouldering Pile, with fractured Arch,
          113Belfry, and Images, and living Trees,
          114A holy Scene! along the smooth green turf
          115Our Horses grazed: to more than inland peace
          116Left by the sea wind passing overhead
          117(Though wind of roughest temper) trees and towers
          118May in that Valley oftentimes be seen,
          119Both silent and both motionless alike;
          120Such is the shelter that is there, and such
          121The safeguard for repose and quietness.

          122     Our steeds remounted, and the summons given,
          123With whip and spur we by the Chauntry flew
          124In uncouth race, and left the cross-legg'd Knight,
          125And the stone-Abbot, and that single Wren
          126Which one day sang so sweetly in the Nave
          127Of the old Church, that, though from recent showers
          128The earth was comfortless, and, touch'd by faint
          129Internal breezes, sobbings of the place,
          130And respirations, from the roofless walls
          131The shuddering ivy dripp'd large drops, yet still,
          132So sweetly 'mid the gloom the invisible Bird
          133Sang to itself, that there I could have made
          134My dwelling-place, and liv'd for ever there
          135To hear such music. Through the Walls we flew
          136And down the valley, and a circuit made
          137In wantonness of heart, through rough and smooth
          138We scamper'd homeward. Oh! ye Rocks and Streams,
          139And that still Spirit of the evening air!
          140Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt
          141Your presence, when with slacken'd step we breath'd
          142Along the sides of the steep hills, or when,
          143Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the sea,
          144We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand.

          145     Upon the Eastern Shore of Windermere,
          146Above the crescent of a pleasant Bay,
          147There stood an Inn, no homely-featured Shed,
          148Brother of the surrounding Cottages,
          149But 'twas a splendid place, the door beset
          150With Chaises, Grooms, and Liveries, and within
          151Decanters, Glasses, and the blood-red Wine.
          152In ancient times, or ere the Hall was built
          153On the large Island, had this Dwelling been
          154More worthy of a Poet's love, a Hut,
          155Proud of its one bright fire, and sycamore shade.
          156But though the rhymes were gone which once inscribed
          157The threshold, and large golden characters
          158On the blue-frosted Signboard had usurp'd
          159The place of the old Lion, in contempt
          160And mockery of the rustic painter's hand,
          161Yet to this hour the spot to me is dear
          162With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay
          163Upon a slope surmounted by the plain
          164Of a small Bowling-green; beneath us stood
          165A grove; with gleams of water through the trees
          166And over the tree-tops; nor did we want
          167Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream.
          168And there, through half an afternoon, we play'd
          169On the smooth platform, and the shouts we sent
          170Made all the mountains ring. But ere the fall
          171Of night, when in our pinnace we return'd
          172Over the dusky Lake, and to the beach
          173Of some small Island steer'd our course with one,
          174The Minstrel of our troop, and left him there,
          175And row'd off gently, while he blew his flute
          176Alone upon the rock; Oh! then the calm
          177And dead still water lay upon my mind
          178Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky
          179Never before so beautiful, sank down
          180Into my heart, and held me like a dream.

          181     Thus daily were my sympathies enlarged,
          182And thus the common range of visible things
          183Grew dear to me: already I began
          184To love the sun, a Boy I lov'd the sun,
          185Not as I since have lov'd him, as a pledge
          186And surety of our earthly life, a light
          187Which while we view we feel we are alive;
          188But, for this cause, that I had seen him lay
          189His beauty on the morning hills, had seen
          190The western mountain touch his setting orb,
          191In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess
          192Of happiness, my blood appear'd to flow
          193With its own pleasure, and I breath'd with joy.
          194And from like feelings, humble though intense,
          195To patriotic and domestic love
          196Analogous, the moon to me was dear;
          197For I would dream away my purposes,
          198Standing to look upon her while she hung
          199Midway between the hills, as if she knew
          200No other region; but belong'd to thee,
          201Yea, appertain'd by a peculiar right
          202To thee and thy grey huts, my darling Vale!

          203     Those incidental charms which first attach'd
          204My heart to rural objects, day by day
          205Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell
          206How Nature, intervenient till this time,
          207And secondary, now at length was sought
          208For her own sake. But who shall parcel out
          209His intellect, by geometric rules,
          210Split, like a province, into round and square?
          211Who knows the individual hour in which
          212His habits were first sown, even as a seed,
          213Who that shall point, as with a wand, and say,
          214'This portion of the river of my mind
          215Came from yon fountain?' Thou, my Friend! art one
          216More deeply read in thy own thoughts; to thee
          217Science appears but, what in truth she is,
          218Not as our glory and our absolute boast,
          219But as a succedaneum, and a prop
          220To our infirmity. Thou art no slave
          221Of that false secondary power, by which,
          222In weakness, we create distinctions, then
          223Deem that our puny boundaries are things
          224Which we perceive, and not which we have made.
          225To thee, unblinded by these outward shows,
          226The unity of all has been reveal'd
          227And thou wilt doubt with me, less aptly skill'd
          228Than many are to class the cabinet
          229Of their sensations, and, in voluble phrase,
          230Run through the history and birth of each,
          231As of a single independent thing.
          232Hard task to analyse a soul, in which,
          233Not only general habits and desires,
          234But each most obvious and particular thought,
          235Not in a mystical and idle sense,
          236But in the words of reason deeply weigh'd,
          237Hath no beginning.

          237                               Bless'd the infant Babe,
          238(For with my best conjectures I would trace
          239The progress of our Being) blest the Babe,
          240Nurs'd in his Mother's arms, the Babe who sleeps
          241Upon his Mother's breast, who, when his soul
          242Claims manifest kindred with an earthly soul,
          243Doth gather passion from his Mother's eye!
          244Such feelings pass into his torpid life
          245Like an awakening breeze, and hence his mind
          246Even [in the first trial of its powers]
          247Is prompt and watchful, eager to combine
          248In one appearance, all the elements
          249And parts of the same object, else detach'd
          250And loth to coalesce. Thus, day by day,
          251Subjected to the discipline of love,
          252His organs and recipient faculties
          253Are quicken'd, are more vigorous, his mind spreads,
          254Tenacious of the forms which it receives.
          255In one beloved presence, nay and more,
          256In that most apprehensive habitude
          257And those sensations which have been deriv'd
          258From this beloved Presence, there exists
          259A virtue which irradiates and exalts
          260All objects through all intercourse of sense.
          261No outcast he, bewilder'd and depress'd;
          262Along his infant veins are interfus'd
          263The gravitation and the filial bond
          264Of nature, that connect him with the world.
          265Emphatically such a Being lives,
          266An inmate of this active universe;
          267From nature largely he receives; nor so
          268Is satisfied, but largely gives again,
          269For feeling has to him imparted strength,
          270And powerful in all sentiments of grief,
          271Of exultation, fear, and joy, his mind,
          272Even as an agent of the one great mind,
          273Creates, creator and receiver both,
          274Working but in alliance with the works
          275Which it beholds.--Such, verily, is the first
          276Poetic spirit of our human life;
          277By uniform control of after years
          278In most abated or suppress'd, in some,
          279Through every change of growth or of decay,
          280Pre-eminent till death.

          280                                   From early days,
          281Beginning not long after that first time
          282In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch,
          283I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart
          284I have endeavour'd to display the means
          285Whereby this infant sensibility,
          286Great birthright of our Being, was in me
          287Augmented and sustain'd. Yet is a path
          288More difficult before me, and I fear
          289That in its broken windings we shall need
          290The chamois' sinews, and the eagle's wing:
          291For now a trouble came into my mind
          292From unknown causes. I was left alone,
          293Seeking the visible world, nor knowing why.
          294The props of my affections were remov'd,
          295And yet the building stood, as if sustain'd
          296By its own spirit! All that I beheld
          297Was dear to me, and from this cause it came,
          298That now to Nature's finer influxes
          299My mind lay open, to that more exact
          300And intimate communion which our hearts
          301Maintain with the minuter properties
          302Of objects which already are belov'd,
          303And of those only. Many are the joys
          304Of youth; but oh! what happiness to live
          305When every hour brings palpable access
          306Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,
          307And sorrow is not there. The seasons came,
          308And every season to my notice brought
          309A store of transitory qualities
          310Which, but for this most watchful power of love
          311Had been neglected, left a register
          312Of permanent relations, else unknown,
          313Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude
          314More active, even, than 'best society',
          315Society made sweet as solitude
          316By silent inobtrusive sympathies,
          317And gentle agitations of the mind
          318From manifold distinctions, difference
          319Perceived in things, where to the common eye,
          320No difference is; and hence, from the same source
          321Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone,
          322In storm and tempest, or in starlight nights
          323Beneath the quiet Heavens; and, at that time,
          324Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound
          325To breathe an elevated mood, by form
          326Or image unprofaned; and I would stand,
          327Beneath some rock, listening to sounds that are
          328The ghostly language of the ancient earth,
          329Or make their dim abode in distant winds.
          330Thence did I drink the visionary power.
          331I deem not profitless those fleeting moods
          332Of shadowy exultation: not for this,
          333That they are kindred to our purer mind
          334And intellectual life; but that the soul,
          335Remembering how she felt, but what she felt
          336Remembering not, retains an obscure sense
          337Of possible sublimity, to which,
          338With growing faculties she doth aspire,
          339With faculties still growing, feeling still
          340That whatsoever point they gain, they still
          341Have something to pursue.

          341                                         And not alone,
          342In grandeur and in tumult, but no less
          343In tranquil scenes, that universal power
          344And fitness in the latent qualities
          345And essences of things, by which the mind
          346Is mov'd by feelings of delight, to me
          347Came strengthen'd with a superadded soul,
          348A virtue not its own. My morning walks
          349Were early; oft, before the hours of School
          350I travell'd round our little Lake, five miles
          351Of pleasant wandering, happy time! more dear
          352For this, that one was by my side, a Friend
          353Then passionately lov'd; with heart how full
          354Will he peruse these lines, this page, perhaps
          355A blank to other men! for many years
          356Have since flow'd in between us; and our minds,
          357Both silent to each other, at this time
          358We live as if those hours had never been.
          359Nor seldom did I lift our cottage latch
          360Far earlier, and before the vernal thrush
          361Was audible, among the hills I sate
          362Alone, upon some jutting eminence
          363At the first hour of morning, when the Vale
          364Lay quiet in an utter solitude.
          365How shall I trace the history, where seek
          366The origin of what I then have felt?
          367Oft in these moments such a holy calm
          368Did overspread my soul, that I forgot
          369That I had bodily eyes, and what I saw
          370Appear'd like something in myself, a dream,
          371A prospect in my mind.

          371                                     'Twere long to tell
          372What spring and autumn, what the winter snows,
          373And what the summer shade, what day and night,
          374The evening and the morning, what my dreams
          375And what my waking thoughts supplied, to nurse
          376That spirit of religious love in which
          377I walked with Nature. But let this, at least
          378Be not forgotten, that I still retain'd
          379My first creative sensibility,
          380That by the regular action of the world
          381My soul was unsubdu'd. A plastic power
          382Abode with me, a forming hand, at times
          383Rebellious, acting in a devious mood,
          384A local spirit of its own, at war
          385With general tendency, but for the most
          386Subservient strictly to the external things
          387With which it commun'd. An auxiliar light
          388Came from my mind which on the setting sun
          389Bestow'd new splendor, the melodious birds,
          390The gentle breezes, fountains that ran on,
          391Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obey'd
          392A like dominion; and the midnight storm
          393Grew darker in the presence of my eye.
          394Hence by obeisance, my devotion hence,
          395And hence my transport.

          395                                       Nor should this, perchance,
          396Pass unrecorded, that I still have lov'd
          397The exercise and produce of a toil
          398Than analytic industry to me
          399More pleasing, and whose character I deem
          400Is more poetic as resembling more
          401Creative agency. I mean to speak
          402Of that interminable building rear'd
          403By observation of affinities
          404In objects where no brotherhood exists
          405To common minds. My seventeenth year was come
          406And, whether from this habit, rooted now
          407So deeply in my mind, or from excess
          408Of the great social principle of life,
          409Coercing all things into sympathy,
          410To unorganic natures I transferr'd
          411My own enjoyments, or, the power of truth
          412Coming in revelation, I convers'd
          413With things that really are, I, at this time
          414Saw blessings spread around me like a sea.
          415Thus did my days pass on, and now at length
          416From Nature and her overflowing soul
          417I had receiv'd so much that all my thoughts
          418Were steep'd in feeling; I was only then
          419Contented when with bliss ineffable
          420I felt the sentiment of Being spread
          421O'er all that moves, and all that seemeth still,
          422O'er all, that, lost beyond the reach of thought
          423And human knowledge, to the human eye
          424Invisible, yet liveth to the heart,
          425O'er all that leaps, and runs, and shouts, and sings,
          426Or beats the gladsome air, o'er all that glides
          427Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself
          428And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not
          429If such my transports were; for in all things
          430I saw one life, and felt that it was joy.
          431One song they sang, and it was audible,
          432Most audible then when the fleshly ear,
          433O'ercome by grosser prelude of that strain,
          434Forgot its functions, and slept undisturb'd.

          435     If this be error, and another faith
          436Find easier access to the pious mind,
          437Yet were I grossly destitute of all
          438Those human sentiments which make this earth
          439So dear, if I should fail, with grateful voice
          440To speak of you, Ye Mountains and Ye Lakes,
          441And sounding Cataracts! Ye Mists and Winds
          442That dwell among the hills where I was born.
          443If, in my youth, I have been pure in heart,
          444If, mingling with the world, I am content
          445With my own modest pleasures, and have liv'd,
          446With God and Nature communing, remov'd
          447From little enmities and low desires,
          448The gift is yours; if in these times of fear,
          449This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown,
          450If, 'mid indifference and apathy
          451And wicked exultation, when good men,
          452On every side fall off we know not how,
          453To selfishness, disguis'd in gentle names
          454Of peace, and quiet, and domestic love,
          455Yet mingled, not unwillingly, with sneers
          456On visionary minds; if in this time
          457Of dereliction and dismay, I yet
          458Despair not of our nature; but retain
          459A more than Roman confidence, a faith
          460That fails not, in all sorrow my support,
          461The blessing of my life, the gift is yours,
          462Ye mountains! thine, O Nature! Thou hast fed
          463My lofty speculations; and in thee,
          464For this uneasy heart of ours I find
          465A never-failing principle of joy,
          466And purest passion.

          466                                Thou, my Friend! wert rear'd
          467In the great City, 'mid far other scenes;
          468But we, by different roads at length have gain'd
          469The self-same bourne. And for this cause to Thee
          470I speak, unapprehensive of contempt,
          471The insinuated scoff of coward tongues,
          472And all that silent language which so oft
          473In conversation betwixt man and man
          474Blots from the human countenance all trace
          475Of beauty and of love. For Thou hast sought
          476The truth in solitude, and Thou art one,
          477The most intense of Nature's worshippers
          478In many things my Brother, chiefly here
          479In this my deep devotion.

          479                                        Fare Thee well!
          480Health, and the quiet of a healthful mind
          481Attend thee! seeking oft the haunts of men,
          482And yet more often living with Thyself,
          483And for Thyself, so haply shall thy days
          484Be many, and a blessing to mankind.

Notes

1] The Prelude was first published in 1850, shortly after the poet's death. It had been completed in 1805, though revised on three occasions afterwards. It was composed to accompany and form part of a more extensive and ambitious work, The Recluse, which was never finished. The Prelude remained without a title until the poet's widow named it, shortly before publication. Wordsworth had referred to it as "the poem on my life" or "the poem to Coleridge." The earliest passages in the poem go back to the beginning of 1798; the earliest and briefest version of the poem was completed, in two parts, in 1799-1800. This earliest version, in its extent, general subject, and to a considerable degree in its episodes and phrasing, corresponds to the part of The Prelude printed here. The text used is that of the poem as first finished in its longest form in 1805. Selections are reprinted here by the permission of The Clarendon Press, Oxford.

28] corporeal frame: cf. Tintern Abbey, 43.

36-37] When, return'd After long absence. Wordsworth revisited Hawkshead, accompanied by Coleridge, on Nov. 2, 1799, after an absence of ten years. These lines were composed shortly after, in the winter of 1799-1800.

51] beauteous forms: Cf. Tintern Abbey, 22.

57] Windermere: the largest of the English lakes, about three miles to the east of Hawkshead.

108] a Structure famed: Furness Abbey, near the sea-coast of Lancashire, about twenty miles south-west of Hawkshead.

124] the cross-legg'd Knight. The posture indicates that the knight represented had been on a crusade.

144] Wordsworth refers again to this expedition to Furness Abbey and uses this identical line later in the poem, at X, 560-67.

147] an Inn: The White Lion, at Bowness.

217] Science: systematic knowledge or learning.

219] succedaneum: substitute.

228-29] to class the cabinet/Of their sensations: to classify their sensations as if they were objects to be arranged and displayed in a cabinet.

263-64] The gravitation and the filial bond of nature. Wordsworth is suggesting an analogy between Newton's law of universal gravitation and the attractive and unifying force to be experienced in the love both for human beings and for the natural world.

291-303] For now a trouble came into my mind, etc. The reference seems to be to the death of his mother (1778) and his father (1783): "the props of my affections were remov'd," yet the loss of human objects for love strengthened his love for nature.

314] 'best society': cf. Paradise Lost, IX, 249: "For solitude sometimes is best society."

348] before the hours of School. Archbishop Sandys, who founded Hawkshead Grammar School in 1585 and drew up the statutes to govern it, decreed that teaching must begin not later than 7:30 A.M. between September 29 and March 25 and 6:30 during the rest of the year.

350] Our little Lake: Esthwaite.

352] a Friend: elsewhere identified as John Fleming, of Rayrigg. Their friendship is mentioned in one of Wordsworth's juvenile poems, The Vale of Esthwaite.

376-77] That spirit of religious love in which/I walked with Nature. The phrasing, if not the meaning, is biblical. Cf. Ephesians 5: 1-2: "Be ye therefore followers of God, as dear children; and walk in love...."

378-81] I still retain'd my first creative sensibility, etc.: referring back to II, 275-80.

415-34] This is the climax of the story of his imaginative development in childhood and early youth, down to his seventeenth year (405) to the time when he first tried seriously to write poetry. This passage had been composed as early as Feb. 1798 for another poem, "The Ruined Cottage."

448-58] if in these times of fear,/This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown, etc. Wordsworth is touching on a theme which Coleridge recommended to him in September 1799: ". . . I wish you would write a poem, in blank verse, addressed to those, who, in consequence of the complete failure of the French Revolution, have thrown up all hopes of the amelioration of mankind, and are sinking into an almost epicurean selfishness, disguising the same under the soft titles of domestic attachment and contempt for visionary philosophes."

466-67] Thou, my Friend! wert rear'd/ln the great City, etc.: cf. Coleridge's Frost at Midnight, 51-52: "For I was reared/In the great city...."

469] The self-same bourne: the same imaginative region; they had become poets with similar ideas of their art.

479-84] This passage, written in the winter of 1799-1800, is not only a formal conclusion of the first and briefest version of the poem that became The Prelude, but is a farewell in a literal sense, for towards the end of 1799 the friends went their separate ways, Coleridge to settle in London, and Wordsworth to return to the north to live in Grasmere.


Online text copyright © 2009, Ian Lancashire (the Department of English) and the University of Toronto.
Published by the Web Development Group, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries.

Original text: William Wordsworth, The Prelude (1805). The Prelude: or, Growth of a Poet's Mind (Text of 1805), ed. Ernest De Selincourt (London: Oxford University Press, 1933). PR 5864 A12 D (University College Library, Toronto).
First publication date: 1805
RPO poem editor: J. R. MacGillivray
RP edition: 3RP 2.345.
Recent editing: 2:2002/3/20

Composition date: 1798 - 1800
Rhyme: unrhyming


Other poems by William Wordsworth