# The Prelude - Author: [William Wordsworth](https://www.leafyquotes.com/william-wordsworth.md) - Quotes: 39 - Book page: https://www.leafyquotes.com/william-wordsworth/the-prelude ## Quotes > And Como! thou, a treasure whom the earth > > Keeps to herself, confined as in a depth > > Of Abyssinian privacy. I spake > > Of thee, thy chestnut woods, and garden plots > > Of Indian-corn tended by dark-eyed maids; > > Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with vines, > > Winding from house to house, from town to town, > > Sole link that binds them to each other; walks, > > League after league, and cloistral avenues, > > Where silence dwells if music be not there: > > While yet a youth undisciplined in verse, > > Through fond ambition of that hour, I strove > > To chant your praise; nor can approach you now > > Ungreeted by a more melodious song, > > Where tones of nature smoothed by learned art > > May flow in lasting current. Like a breeze > > Or sunbeam over your domain I passed > > In motion without pause; but ye have left > > Your beauty with me, a serene accord > > Of forms and colors, passive, yet endowed > > In their submissiveness with power as sweet > > And gracious, almost might I dare to say, > > As virtue is, or goodness; sweet as love, > > Or the remembrance of a generous deed, > > Or mildest visitation of pure thought, > > When God, the giver of all joy, is thanked > > Religiously, in silent blessedness; > > Sweet as this last herself, for such it is. > A day > > Spent in a round of strenuous idleness. > Nor was it mean delight > > To watch crude Nature work in untaught minds; > > To note the laws and progress of belief; > > Though obstinate on this way, yet on that > > How willingly we travel, and how far! > > To have, for instance, brought upon the scene > > The champion, Jack the Giant-killer: Lo! > > He dons his coat of darkness; on the stage > > Walks, and achieves his wonders, from the eye > > Of living Mortal covert, "as the moon > > Hid in her vacant interlunar cave." > > Delusion bold! and how can it be wrought? > > The garb he wears is black as death, the word > > "Invisible" flames forth upon his chest. > Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze, > > A visitant that while it fans my cheek > > Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings > > From the green fields, and from yon azure sky. > > Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come > > To none more grateful than to me; escaped > > From the vast city, where I long had pined > > A discontented sojourner: now free, > > Free as a bird to settle where I will. > All moveables of wonder, from all parts, > > Are here—Albinos, painted Indians, Dwarfs, > > The Horse of knowledge, and the learned Pig, > > The Stone-eater, the man that swallows fire, > > Giants, Ventriloquists, the Invisible Girl, > > The Bust that speaks and moves its goggling eyes, > > The Wax-work, Clock-work, all the marvellous craft > > Of modern Merlins, Wild Beasts, Puppet-shows, > > All out-o'-the-way, far-fetched, perverted things, > > All freaks of nature, all Promethean thoughts > > Of man, his dullness, madness, and their feats > > All jumbled up together, to compose > > A Parliament of Monsters. > The earth is all before me. With a heart > > Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, > > I look about; and should the chosen guide > > Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, > > I cannot miss my way. > With the din > > Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; > > The leafless trees and every icy crag > > Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills > > Into the tumult sent an alien sound > > Of melancholy. > The budding rose above the rose full blown. > Whether we be young or old, > > Our destiny, our being's heart and home, > > Is with infinitude, and only there; > > With hope it is, hope that can never die, > > Effort and expectation, and desire, > > And something evermore about to be. > Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, > > But to be young was very heaven! > Characters of the great Apocalypse, > > The types and symbols of Eternity, > > Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. > Leaving the tumultuous throng, > > To cut across the reflex of a star > > That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed > > Upon the glassy plain. > Fair seedtime had my soul, and I grew up > > Fostered alike by beauty and by fear. > When from our better selves we have too long > > Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, > > Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, > > How gracious, how benign, is Solitude. > There's not a man > > That lives who hath not known his god-like hours. > Multitudes of hours > > Pilfered away, by what the Bard who sang > > Of the Enchanter Indolence hath called > > "Good-natured lounging," and behold a map > > Of my collegiate life. > Go to the Poets, they will speak to thee > > More perfectly of purer creatures;—yet > > If reason be nobility in man, > > Can aught be more ignoble than the man > > Whom they delight in, blinded as he is > > By prejudice, the miserable slave > > Of low ambition or distempered love? > How oft, amid those overflowing streets, > > Have I gone forward with the crowd, and said > > Unto myself, "The face of every one > > That passes by me is a mystery!" > All shod with steel, > > We hissed along the polished ice in games > > Confederate. > For I would walk alone, > > Under the quiet stars, and at that time > > Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound > > To breathe an elevated mood, by form > > Or image unprofaned; and I would stand, > > If the night blackened with a coming storm, > > Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are > > The ghostly language of the ancient earth, > > Or make their dim abode in distant winds. > > Thence did I drink the visionary power; > > And deem not profitless those fleeting moods > > Of shadowy exultation: not for this, > > That they are kindred to our purer mind > > And intellectual life; but that the soul, > > Remembering how she felt, but what she felt > > Remembering not, retains an obscure sense > > Of possible sublimity, whereto > > With growing faculties she doth aspire, > > With faculties still growing, feeling still > > That whatsoever point they gain, they yet > > Have something to pursue. > Huge and mighty forms, that do not live > > Like living men, moved slowly through the mind > > By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. > Mighty is the charm > > Of those abstractions to a mind beset > > With images, and haunted by herself, > > And specially delightful unto me > > Was that clear synthesis built up aloft > > So gracefully; even then when it appeared > > Not more than a mere plaything, or a toy > > To sense embodied: not the thing it is > > In verity, an independent world, > > Created out of pure intelligence. > Where the statue stood > > Of Newton with his prism and silent face, > > The marble index of a mind forever > > Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone. > Brothers all > > In honour, as in one community, > > Scholars and gentlemen. > 'Tis told by one whom stormy waters threw, > > With fellow-sufferers by the shipwreck spared, > > Upon a desert coast, that having brought > > To land a single volume, saved by chance, > > A treatise of Geometry. > Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows > > Like harmony in music; there is a dark > > Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles > > Discordant elements, makes them cling together > > In one society. > Another morn > > Risen on mid-noon. > A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. > How men lived > > Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still > > Strangers, not knowing each the other's name. > Here must thou be, O Man! > > Power to thyself; no Helper hast thou here; > > Here keepest thou in singleness thy state: > > No other can divide with thee this work: > > No secondary hand can intervene > > To fashion this ability; 'tis thine, > > The prime and vital principle is thine > > In the recesses of thy nature, far > > From any reach of outward fellowship, > > Else is not thine at all. > Oh! give us once again the wishing cap > > Of Fortunatus, and the invisible coat > > Of Jack the Giant-killer, Robin Hood, > > And Sabra in the forest with St. George! > > The child, whose love is here, at least, doth reap > > One precious gain, that he forgets himself. > Frank-hearted maids of rocky Cumberland. p. 100 > Oh, blank confusion! true epitome > > Of what the mighty City is herself, > > To thousands upon thousands of her sons, > > Living amid the same perpetual whirl > > Of trivial objects, melted and reduced > > To one identity, by differences > > That have no law, no meaning, and no end— > > Oppression, under which even highest minds > > Must labour, whence the strongest are not free. > Many are our joys > > In youth, but oh! what happiness to live > > When every hour brings palpable access > > Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight, > > And sorrow is not there! > The grim shape > > Towered up between me and the stars, and still, > > For so it seemed, with purpose of its own > > And measured motion like a living thing, > > Strode after me. > There is > > One great society alone on earth: > > The noble Living and the noble Dead. > Yet still the solitary cliffs > > Wheeled by me—even as if the earth had rolled > > With visible motion her diurnal round! > Wisdom and Spirit of the universe! > > Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought, > > That givest to forms and images a breath > > And everlasting motion. > And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, > > The self-sufficing power of Solitude.