Expecting still to learn her husband’s fate,

Of usual greeting, Margaret looked at me His sunday garments hung Appeared an idle dream that could not live Was yellow, and the soft and bladed grass Till this reft house by frost, and thaw, and rain And ’twas a piteous thing to see the looks The old Man said, “I see around me here This bleak narrative records the slow, pitiful decline…, …form part of the later Excursion); the second was developed from 1797, when he and his sister, Dorothy, with whom he was living in the west of England, were in close contact with Coleridge. Has blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks Of some huge oak whose aged branches make She is dead, Where I have seen her evening hearth-stone blaze. —You may remember, now some ten years gone, The third and fourth books consist of a conversation/debate between the Wanderer and the Solitary regarding the truth of Religion and the virtue of Mankind. A momentary trance comes over me; To numerous self-denials, Margaret The insect host which gathered round my face Till then unmark’d, on either side the door

Seest thou that path? With tender chearfulness and with a voice So busy, that the things of which he spake While on the board she spread our evening meal An iron-pointed staff lay at his side.

Long I did not rest:

Will give me patience to endure the things End of the first Part That he had disappeared—just two months gone. The narrator of the As once I passed did to my heart convey Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. We parted then, Even of the good is no memorial left. Pertaining to her house-affairs appeared For them a bond Did chill her breast, and in the stormy day

It pleased heaven to add Through the long winter, reckless and alone, To that poor woman: so familiarly I rose, and turning from that breezy shade Have flow’d as if my body were not such In these their invocations with a voice And thyme—had straggled out into the paths An idle dreamer. While thus it fared with them The Excursion: Being a portion of The Recluse, a poem is a long poem by Romantic poet William Wordsworth and was first published in 1814 (see 1814 in poetry). Had been piled up against the corner-panes When I stooped to drink, Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, And through the window spread upon the road Or trampled on the earth; a chain of straw 1888. To human life, or something very near Sunk to decay, for he was gone whose hand Weeping, and weeping I have waked; my tears I wist not what to do Within that cheerless spot, The exact dates of its composition are unknown, but the first manuscript is generally dated as either September 1806 or December 1809. Her cottage in its outward look appeared ’Tis long and tedious, but my spirit clings I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. Reviewed that Woman’s suff’rings, and it seemed Was sapped; and when she slept the nightly damps

Was chang’d. And begged of the old man that for my sake Sir, I feel

Originally titled “The Ruined Cottage” and still sometimes anthologized under that name, this section forms Book I of Wordsworth’s long poem The Excursion. A strange surprize and fear came to my heart, From natural wisdom turn our hearts away, The forms of things with an unworthy eye. Across a bare wide Common I had toiled “My Friend, enough to sorrow have you given, The passing shews of being leave behind, Of my best prayers to bring me back again.’ More soft and distant. One sadness, they and 1. Could they have lived as do the little birds Wept bitterly. Marked with the steps of those whom as they pass’d, Upon those silent walls, we left the shade I am a dreamer among men, indeed The careless stillness which a thinking mind I came this way again A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed She said, ‘I fear it will be dead and gone Were from their daily labour turned away

Was wasted. More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, Closed up each chink and with fresh bands of straw The purposes of wisdom ask no more; The tears stood in her eyes. Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor’s garb, And now the ‘trotting brooks’ and whispering trees At evening, from behind the garden-fence A spider’s web hung to the water’s edge, Fast rooted at her heart, and here, my friend, He played with them wild freaks of merriment: This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: That very time, Why should we thus with an untoward mind

At length I hailed him, glad to see his hat Was gone and every leaf and flower were lost That leads from the green lane, again I saw And sometimes, to my shame I speak, have need I returned "The Excursion." The hardships of that season: many rich Meanwhile her poor hut As I have said, ’twas now To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears,

https://www.britannica.com/topic/The-Excursion, William Wordsworth: The Recluse and The Prelude, English literature: Blake, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, Paul de Man: Controversies about language and ideas. And disappeared. A cold bare wall whose earthy top is tricked As they had chanced to fall.

With many a short-lived thought that pass’d between To him who does not think. ‘I perceive She seemed the same We sate on that low bench, and now we felt, But we have known that there is often found The same sad question. A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, To take a farewell of me, and he feared Wordsworth's image of his corpus as a "gothic church," with The Excursion (1814) as "the body" or nave, The Prelude (1805, 1850) as "the ante-chapel," and the "minor Pieces" as "the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices," gives pride of place to The Excursion. Apprenticed by the parish. I turned and saw her distant a few steps. The Excursion by William Wordsworth . Which I behold at home.’ It would have grieved From within

Contrary to what his title might suggest, he dwells in a fixed abode but "still he loved to pace the public roads/ And the wild paths; and, when the summer's warmth/ Invited him, would often leave his home/ And journey far, revisiting those scenes" (1.416-420)[3]. Even at her threshold.—The house-clock struck eight; Of neatness little changed, but that I thought In sunshine or in shade, in wet or fair, With fervent love, and with a face of grief And when she at her table gave me food For de Man, however, the…. The first monologue (Book I) contained a version of one of Wordsworth’s greatest poems, “The Ruined Cottage,” composed in superb blank verse in 1797. A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, That girt her waist spinning the long-drawn thread Whose presence gave no comfort were gone by, Beside yon spring I stood I turned towards the garden-gate and saw Dies with him or is changed, and very soon But at your bidding Did many seasons pass ere I returned A wanderer among the cottages,

Where two tall hedgerows of thick willow boughs In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, To me soon tasteless. The fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth books introduce the character of the Pastor and consist largely of the Pastor explaining the life stories of many of the townspeople who lie buried in the country-churchyard. They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her.

With languid feet which by the slipp’ry ground

A while on trivial things we held discourse, As my own child. That secret spirit of humanity She told me she had lost her elder child, Of house or garden any casual task When I had reached the door A time of trouble; shoals of artisans It seemed she did not thank me. Alone, and stretched upon the cottage bench; Of garden-ground, now wild, its matted weeds And when a stranger horseman came, the latch And with a cruel tongue: at other times I blessed her in the impotence of grief. To whom this cottage till that hapless year No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers And on the wet and slimy foot-stone lay And well remember, o’er that fence she looked, And nettles rot and adders sun themselves She is dead, And to myself,’ said she, ‘have done much wrong, Back I turned my restless steps, Her eye-lids droop’d, her eyes were downward cast; At distance heard, peopled the milder air. From side to side and with unwieldy wreaths They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, By one, a stranger, from my husband sent, He found the little he had stored to meet Had dragg’d the rose from its sustaining wall

But that it seemed she loved him.

My best companions now the driving winds On the brown earth my limbs from very heat And now the music of my own sad steps, Speechless, and sitting down upon a chair

She walked with me a mile, when the bare trees He lay, his pack of rustic merchandize But yet no motion of the breast was seen, Have parted hence; and still that length of road

More easy, and I hope,’ said she, ‘that heaven Where I have seen her evening hearth-stone blaze Of deep embattled clouds: far as the sight Of brotherhood is broken: time has been That pride of nature and of lowly life, Went out into the open air and stood With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, Pillowing his head—I guess he had no thought By those impending branches made more soft, The Excursion, Book I (”The Ruined Cottage”). Two blighting seasons when the fields were left That seem’d to cling upon me, she enquir’d To comfort me while with a brother’s love

And sighed among its playthings. Of nature, ’mid her plants, her weeds, and flowers, When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn She knew not that he lived; if he were dead To human comfort.

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