John Clare’s Nightingale

Nightingales have a special significance for me; when I first saw and heard one in France I had an experience of the ‘numinous.’ I describe this briefly in another post titled, Keats’ Nightingale.

I even coined the term, ‘the nightingale effect’ to describe any time and instance when we see the world anew, with child-like eyes, completely devoid of pain or disharmony.

John Clare (1793-1864) used to be described as a ‘peasant poet’ because he had not had much of a formal education, if any. However we must remember Bernard Shaw’s quip about his own education, that ‘the only time my education was interrupted was when I went to school.’ The education Clare received from Nature, like Wordsworth, was life-long and deep. Maybe his vision was kept pure because he hadn’t been ‘corrupted’ by the stultifying educational system of his day.?

It’s strange how we have books on our shelves unread or unremembered. I have a 1966 anthology of Clare’s poetry and prose and I certainly have read it. However, I can’t remember this poem, The Nightingale’s Nest, having such an effect on me as when I read it today. It works on a number of levels as all good poetry does. It parallels my own experience of searching for this ‘wonder-bird.’ I wasn’t looking for its nest but simply looking and listening to see if I could find the bird. People who are not birders (to use the American term which has been adopted here in the UK) may wonder what all the fuss is about. This would require an article of its own but for me it combines many things including a sense of the chase, making a list, a sense of achievement, furthering the trait of curiosity, aesthetic pleasure and self-transcendence, if that latter is not too pretentious a term. (Actually, readers now can appreciate this, as witnessed by so many in this unprecedented lockdown situation. Presenters on TV, such as Chris Packham, have talked of the healing power of nature.)

To get back to Clare, the lines, I’ve nestled down/And watched her while she sung – and her renown/Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird/

Should have no better dress than russet brown. . . exactly parallels my response when I first saw one singing. (I’ll add my short poem at the end just to show this similar response.)

The genius of Clare is that he writes of the particular but in so doing he uses the specific as a jumping of platform into a spiritual dimension. (Strictly speaking there are not two things here; the experiences he writes of are all of a whole; the specific and spiritual are two sides of the coin.) Of course, he has this in common with Blake, Wordsworth and many other poets. But, perhaps he is the more consistent in his adherence to his ‘local patch’. Wordsworth travelled a lot in comparison. Anyway, I’ll leave the poem to speak for itself.

The Nightingale’s Nest

Up this green woodland-ride let’s softly rove,
And list the nightingale – she dwells just here.
Hush ! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love;
For here I’ve heard her many a merry year –
At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day,
As though she lived on song. This very spot,
Just where that old-man’s-beard all wildly trails
Rude arbours o’er the road, and stops the way –
And where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got,
Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails –
There have I hunted like a very boy,
Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn
To find her nest, and see her feed her young.
And vainly did I many hours employ :
All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.
And where those crimping fern-leaves ramp among
The hazel’s under boughs, I’ve nestled down,
And watched her while she sung ; and her renown
Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird
Should have no better dress than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,
And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy,
And mouth wide open to release her heart
Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part
Of summer’s fame she shared, for so to me
Did happy fancies shapen her employ;
But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred,
All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain:
The timid bird had left the hazel bush,
And at a distance hid to sing again.
Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves,
Rich Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain,
Till envy spurred the emulating thrush
To start less wild and scarce inferior songs;
For while of half the year Care him bereaves,
To damp the ardour of his speckled breast;
The nightingale to summer’s life belongs,
And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs,
Are strangers to her music and her rest.
Her joys are evergreen, her world is wide –
Hark! there she is as usual – let’s be hush –
For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guest,
Her curious house is hidden. Part aside
These hazel branches in a gentle way,
And stoop right cautious ’neath the rustling boughs,
For we will have another search to day,
And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round ;
And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows,
We’ll wade right through, it is a likely nook :
In such like spots, and often on the ground,
They’ll build, where rude boys never think to look –
Aye, as I live ! her secret nest is here,
Upon this white-thorn stump ! I’ve searched about
For hours in vain. There! put that bramble by –
Nay, trample on its branches and get near.
How subtle is the bird ! she started out,
And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh,
Ere we were past the brambles ; and now, near
Her nest, she sudden stops – as choking fear,
That might betray her home. So even now
We’ll leave it as we found it : safety’s guard
Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still.
See there! she’s sitting on the old oak bough,
Mute in her fears ; our presence doth retard
Her joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill.
Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befall
Thy visions, than the fear that now deceives.
We will not plunder music of its dower,
Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall;
For melody seems hid in every flower,
That blossoms near thy home. These harebells all
Seem bowing with the beautiful in song ;
And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves,
Seems blushing of the singing it has heard.
How curious is the nest ; no other bird
Uses such loose materials, or weaves
Its dwelling in such spots : dead oaken leaves
Are placed without, and velvet moss within,
And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare,
What scarcely seem materials, down and hair;
For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win.
Yet Nature is the builder, and contrives
Homes for her children’s comfort, even here;
Where Solitude’s disciples spend their lives
Unseen, save when a wanderer passes near
That loves such pleasant places. Deep a down,
The nest is made a hermit’s mossy cell.
Snug lie her curious eggs in number five,
Of deadened green, or rather olive brown;
And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.
So here we’ll leave them, still unknown to wrong,
As the old woodland’s legacy of song.

* * *

Nightingale Farewell

Last day in France – binoculars at the ready –
after sudden rain I walk along
steaming tarmac into pine forest shade,
pulled by bright sobbing and glissando glide –
I know you’re there by your jazzy come-on;
I’ve tuned my ears to see round corners!
My first glance upwards towards the telephone cable
over-shoots – the bird on the wire looks so plain –
I don’t catch on to your whispered tones. When I catch up,
you’re magnified in a circle – I marvel
at your modest plumage, warm brown tail
and throbbing throat. A little brown jizz!
Your bel canto leaps, your triplets and tremolos
are a high wire cabaletta – heard only by me.

Maybe tomorrow you’ll fly south, silently tracking
the fine line between light and dark, between
seeing and not seeing, while I fly north towards grey skies,
terraced houses and blackbirds in the park.

*

The Clare anthology I have is Clare, New Oxford Series, Edited by Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield. (1966) It has a wide selection of poems and prose so you can read the prose description and the subsequent poem.

Gallery

A selection of my art works

Life Force, acrylic on canvas, 56cm x 56cm

Jungle Birds, acrylic on plywood, 68cm x 33cm
Bird in Flower, acrylic on canvas, 56cm x 56cm
Swallow & Mahonia, acrylic on hardboard, 70cm x 31cm
Triptych Palm Oil Extinction, acrylic on board, 87cm x 38cm
Hornbill and Palm Oil, acrylic on 3-ply plywood, 65cm x 44cm
Bee and Foxgloves, Gouache, 22cms x 20cms

Buddha Bird, Acrylic, 30cms x 29cms

Bird Abstract

Acrylic on canvas, 41cm x 41cm

Old Fox

Gouache, 20 x 5cm

In the Shadow of Covid 19

My monthly post is inevitably topical.

Falling Apart

In the garden

daffodils wilt; blossom falls.

Some may see each day

endlessly repeating

like a wind-up toy, while

what may seem hum drum,

the hum of the fridge,

a ticking clock,

the science fiction silence outside,

is the world renewing itself

in each dying moment. . .

And we too, while honouring

the bitter taste

of each remembered mistake

can fall apart again and again.

*

Ageing

Seventy three years

cultivating karma

yet there is no self in each breath

*

Surprised By Joy

Sitting alone

sudden birdsong

extinguishes dreams.

Hornbill – An Approach to Painting

It’s time for another post. It’s almost impossible to blog at the moment without reference to the pandemic and consequent social (that should really be ‘physical’) distancing. All I will say regarding that is that I’m grateful I’ve got an activity such as painting which I can do inside and is relatively straightforward. If the restrictions last for months it is going to impact on mental health globally, particularly for those who live alone. Yet, on the other hand if this forces all of us to ‘withdraw within and reflect upon ourselves’ that would be no bad thing.

I want to describe the process I go through when I paint in the hope that it may interest those of you who don’t paint and those of you who do, or those of you who have other creative outlets. I also describe how zoologists think about extinction threats.

I find my initial ideas by reading, looking and thinking. I look through bird books and online as I find that birds are an endless source of subject matter. (I’ve been a keen birdwatcher for decades)

Last Christmas my daughter gave me Facing Extinction written by four ornithologists and published by Christopher Helm. The book is a sad testament to how we exploit natural resources for profit but also has some encouraging and heroic stories about conservation of species. One of the birds discussed is the rufous-headed hornbill which is ‘critically endangered.’ ( Zoologists use seven categories of extinction-risk. In increasing order of threat they are, Least Concern, Near Threatened, Vulnerable, Endangered, Critically Endangered, Extinct in the Wild and Extinct.) Although the book is beautifully illustrated this hornbill was not featured but I soon found images online.

The authors of the book explain how deforestation is a major factor in species decline and loss. For example, palm oil plantations are responsible for the full-scale destruction of rain forest habitats. (Most of the tree species in rain forests have taken up to ninety years to reach maturity and they are felled in an afternoon!) The oil from these trees is found in a huge variety of consumer products such as shampoo, peanut butter and biscuits. To reference this I decided to paint a ‘portrait’ of the hornbill next to a palm oil tree.

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Here is the initial drawing which has a few notes regarding colours I intended to use. When I ‘compose’ a picture I think about negative space from the beginning. (Negative spaces are the shapes between objects.)

The next image shows one stage of the painting where I have at first painted the palm oil tree before finishing the bird.

horbill one

This is the finished painting. I wanted to paint the out-sized bill in bright colours and to suggest its horny texture. You may also notice I’ve added more feathery texture to the neck and more leaf fronds on the right hand side.

IMG_1242

The overhanging fronds may suggest a protective covering for the hornbill but if you look closely the tips of the fronds appear as if they are slashed. Why is this? This is where a title of a painting is crucial, just as with a poem. I sent the finished painting to a few friends (on WhatsApp) and got responses along the lines of ‘vibrant’ and ‘uplifting’. Now, see how your view changes with two alternative titles. Firstly, Rufous-headed hornbill, secondly,  Critically Endanged. Obviously I would opt for the second but I must admit that I painted the palm tree with as much care and attention as the hornbill.

I would use the term ‘eco-art’ to describe most of my recent paintings. At first glance this one may remind you of a poster for a Caribbean holiday and I do wonder if this was a subconscious factor in its composition. Without the title, perhaps viewers may simple see this work as a colourful painting?

As a postscript, climate change will probably pose as many problems as the coronavirus pandemic. Perhaps we are at a turning point in history now and our very survival will be in question if we do not seriously address this problem. It takes an invisible ‘enemy’ like a virus to get the engines of government and communities engaged. Climate change does not seem as immediate as Covid 19 but both phenomena show how interconnected everything is. Covid 19 has caused a global response. What will it take to get governments to take comparative action to mitigate against the dire effects of climate change?

 

 

 

Climate Catastrophe

It is February so this is my monthly posting.  I could write reams about climate change but will resisit that temptation. Most of us know the facts by now and some of us may even agree with Greta Thunberg that we should be scared!

Instead, I will describe something else. I have recently found good canvases with paintings on them in charity shops. It all started with the Christmas challenge (see my last post) which alerted me to a cheap way of finding painting ‘supports.’ The painting here is done on hardboard, another source from a charity shop. Usually if you find a framed picture there will be hardboard on the back. I take this out and prime it with Gesso and hey presto there is your support for a new painting. It has the aditional advantage that you can return the painting to the original frame when it is finished!

All this for £1 (minus cost of paints of course).

This picture is 45 x 38 cms.

 

 

New Painting: a Commission

 

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As a former art teacher, I’ve always been interested in art history but during the last few years I’ve had an opportunity to appreciate works of art in a more considered way. Firstly I looked at Renaissance works when I wrote a manuscript about that period of art and then I examined William Blake’s work as I attempted to write about his illustrations for the Book of Job. A few months ago I formed an art appreciation group with the purpose of visiting galleries and talking about the art there. It is much easier to admire the work of established artists than create your own but perhaps my immersion in world-renowned art works has nudged me in the direction of my own creativity.

Perhaps the foregoing facts started something in my subconscious. However, this painting of mine was not initially my own idea; a friend bought a canvas in a charity shop which was half coloured in a pinky-crimson paint. She wondered if I might like to make a painting of it! I decided to take up the challenge and see if I could incorporate the crimson colour as sky in a landscape. I would not usually choose a palette of reds and pinks but it is good to think outside of your comfort zone in art as well as in life. My friend wanted the painting for her bedroom.

The idea came to me to reference other artists in my painting; particularly to use well known motifs. I chose Cezanne and his Mont Sainte Victoire which he painted many times. The other motif of the house came from Paul Klee’s small painting, Arctic Thaw which is not as well known. Cezanne is often considered the father of modernism and I have always found Klee’s work delightfully whimsical. Apart from this starting point I had no idea how the painting would develop or turn out. It is a mistake to over-plan paintings and so I incorporated accidental shapes and colours as I worked using a large brush to begin with. I started with the Cezanne mountain so that had to be planned in so far as the shape would have to be recognisable to the viewer. The strange Klee house was also painted with the correct proportions. The rest of the painting developed more spontaneously – I’m not sure where the palm tree came from but I like the idea of combining disparate objects – do palm trees grow in mountainous regions? Um, maybe, but mine isn’t a particular species anyway, it is more generic and stylised with its nod to cubism. I added the horse rider to suggest a narrative.

I chose greens and yellows to act as complementary colours to the reds and pinks. I kept the tonal values close to emphasise the pastel mood of the painting. To use a musical analogy the painting is more an adagio than a scherzo. Paintings are often compared to music – the composition, colours, shapes and tones have their equivalents in music. I like to balance positive space with negative space and you will see how the latter relate to the former if you imagine the composition as abstract. If you can invert your screen you can also see the relation of shapes to each other better.

Looking at a paintings can also be compared to listening to music. There should be an indefinable aesthetic feeling of pleasure or an ‘aha’ moment when you take time to really look at a painting. Perhaps the computer screen is not always the best medium for this lingering appreciation.

I’m reasonably happy with the finished painting and enjoyed the process which involved making intuitive decisions about shapes, colours, tones and composition.

A Vision

earth

I first came across this description by J.B. Priestley in a wonderful book of his called, Man and Time. It is an exploration of time from different points of view; scientific, literary and religious. It is beautifully illustrated in colour. He was fascinated with phenomena such as pre-cognition and dreams and wrote his famous ‘time-plays’ such as Dangerous Corner to dramatise various anomalies and theories. The poem is based on one of Priestley’s own dreams.

A Vision1

I am on top of a high tower, looking down. I see thousands of birds

flying in separate flocks; one flock is a cloud of curlews,

one is a murmeration of starlings, one is a squadron of swans.

Gradually as I watch, the flocks fuse and become a vast aerial river

of birds; a river in the sky, a river of multicoloured feathers and wings,

a pulsating river, now spiralling, now circling, now cascading.

I hear a gentle honking, cooing and twittering as the river draws nearer;

I feel a cool draught of air on my cheeks.

*

I see generations of birds; watch them break their shells as they are born,

watch them flutter into life, mate, weaken, falter and die. Wings grow

only to crumble into dust, bodies are sleek and then bleed and shrivel.

Thousands upon thousands of flickering bodies flap wings and moult

feathers in heaps until the heaps form multicoloured hillocks of down.

Scrawny heads crack open fragile shells and the naked birds quickly grow

feathers, quickly fly and mate again and again only to bleed, shrivel and die.

I feel sick in my throat. What is the use of all this struggle to exist?

It would have been better if not one of them, if not one of us, had been born.

I stand on the tower; a man alone and in despair.

*

Now the thousands of birds become one multicoloured mass spread out

like a never-ending flower-bed on a desert sand. Time is running so fast

that the mass of birds is motionless. The desert seems an oasis of all

colours; blues, reds, yellows, purples and greens; the desert is a plain

sown with bird-bone-flesh-and-feathers. And along this plain, flickering

through the bodies themselves, there passes a tiny white flame, trembling,

dancing, then hurrying on, flickering through every particle of coloured

bird-bone-flesh-and-feather. Now it comes to me in a rocket-burst

of ecstasy that this flame is life itself and that nothing else matters;

nothing else could matter because, compared to this flame, everything else

is a shadow.

*

I am still in the tower and now I see a river of people.

Some are swimming, some are drowning and some are losing

their heads; and arms and legs. I see the water is thick with excrement

and blood. Bits of buildings, decapitated trees, vehicles and boulders

hurtle along with people and body-parts.

Time speeds up and the river flows faster; the bodies, boulders,

trees and buildings merge into a new mysterious form, gigantic,

like a whale, and the river convulses and surges like a tsunami.

Time goes even faster and I see the Earth

as if from the moon. And I hear a voice roaring like a lion:

“Who shall inherit the Earth?”

I am looking down from my moon-tower.

The Earth still looks beautiful; mottled, like a guillemot’s egg.

*

1Part-found poem: source; J.B. Priestley’s, Rain Upon Godshill, p304 William Heinmann Ltd, 1941.

The Blind Girl

I wrote this for another poetry website.

John Everett Millais’ The Blind Girl

First of all I sat for the blind girl. It was dreadful suffering, the sun poured in through the window. I had a brown cloth over my forehead which was some relief but several times I was as sick as possible and nearly argued. Another day I sat outside in a hay field, and when the face was done Everett scratched it out; he wasn’t pleased with it and complained about the showers.

Smoke from Everett’s pipe got in my eyes so I had to shut them. He told me to keep them shut. He told me not to see the beggar boy on the toll road; he told me not to see the three crows feeding on a dead rabbit or the adder by his own left boot. I laughed and said I could still see with my eyes shut. I could smell the acrid smoke rising from a factory chimney; I could hear the donkeys coughing in the field; I could hear the boy weeping. He told me to be blind.

The concertina was lent by Mr Pringle who had a daughter who had died. It was hers. He said we could keep it as it would never be played again. I smoothed my orange skirt and rested the concertina on my lap doing my best to be blind. It was difficult to keep my eyes shut on such a beautiful day. Everett said there was a double rainbow so I had to look. Everett wasn’t pleased as he was doing the face again. I stretched out my right hand and touched a wild flower growing in the grass. I knew it was a harebell as my little finger fitted inside just as if it was a thimble.

The next day the weather seeped into our drawing room and the double rainbow arched over the carpet. I had my eyes open and could see a painted lady fluttering at the window pane. I could hear concertina music softly playing.

[Part-found prose poem: Source/ Effie Millais’ journals]

To My Father

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I’ve been trying to write a long poem in tribute to my father who was a Wordsworth enthusiast. Needless to say, I have found it very difficult and don’t know what to make of my attempt. This is the beginning. The good thing about a blog is you can float ideas to try out. This is not a finished draft; merely a first attempt!

*

Is it for this an un-bridged chasm yawned between us?

I know I turned away from your literary conversations

and when you wrote your annotations, but be sure, that now

I venerate your Everyman hardback. Now you’re no longer

able to converse with Wordsworth or with me I’ll try

and bridge the widening gap. I’ve paid homage today

by gluing the loose spine and placing your book on my altar.

*

You didn’t annotate De Quincey’s quip, that Wordsworth’s legs

were certainly not ornamental so I wonder if you smiled

when you followed De Quincey’s meandering steps. Did you

chuckle when you read that beside a tall clergyman

Wordsworth’s figure appeared “mean” and he walked

like a beetle, even edging his companions off the highway?

Once you attached a grapnel around his eyes and underscored:

there was a light as if radiating from some spiritual world

the light that never was on land or sea.

I’m in concord here and throw a rope to the other side, hoping

I can narrow the distance. I’m following a convoluted path

here and now but recognise your footprints: your battles

en route and with the dimming light. Some footholds

afford some security and I can rest awhile. I travel on

and glimpse a finger-post pointing to a deep ravine;

I hope there’s a permissive path beyond the gorse.

*

I was a toddler trailing clouds of glory when you read

about your hero’s legs. Like his, yours conquered many a peak

and cut a path through scrub and gorse. Years later I came to myself

in a dark wood: I knew I had lost the way. If only I had

talked to you about Dante’s Labyrinthine Way!

Your furrow then was straight and certain, a bulwark against

the distractions of the world. You underlined in pencil;

he was guarded from too early intercourse with the deformities

of crowded life. In the ensuing years your naming of parts

obscured both our paths. You named the poetic faculty

as the highest good. I find your longer sentences difficult

to follow even with a magnifying glass. You turned his Ode

around and wrote horizontally. There is little that’s fugitive

but his spots of time became your asterisks; his radical ideas

your ‘toning down.’

I lay down my words in the shadow of yours;

I underline the verses next to yours and tomorrow I’ll copy out

your longer passages before they fade from view. My hands

touch the edge of both our worlds on this cold day.

A double underlining for the powers of reason and nature

thus reciprocally teacher and taught – you can be my guide

even at this late date. I know that, a voice without imagination

cannot be heard. Is it for this that I am searching for the signs?

Wordsworth’s Mysticism

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Grasmere

This is a version of a mini-essay I did for an online course designed by Lancaster University on FutureLearn. My late father was a Wordsworth enthusiast so this is partly a tribute to him. I have a few of his books on Wordsworth and have enjoyed reading my father’s many annotations he made in pencil.

Although Wordsworth became an orthodox Anglican in his later years this should not be held against him or detract from his championing of the ‘indwelling spirit’ throughout his life but especially in his younger years. He is not as radical as William Blake but, nevertheless, there are passages in The Prelude where he is preoccupied with a mystical view of reality and that necessary inner spiritual transformation of the individual.

We are all familiar with his ‘nature-worship’ which goes by the term ‘pantheism.’ Perhaps this is epitomised in his Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, and especially in the lines:

And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused

[. . . ] A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things . . .

However, we should not limit Wordsworth’s beliefs to nature-worship alone. I would argue his broader views have a lot in common with Blake (“to see heaven in a wild flower”), the English Mystics, St John of the Cross, and even Eastern traditions such as Buddhism and Taoism. As with all mystical traditions, a universal ‘Love’ is at the centre of his worldview. In common with Blake, he also elevates “Imagination” to a position where it is co-joined with selfless Love.

Here is a passage from Book 14 of The Prelude (significantly, the 1850 version is not much altered from the 1805 version):

Imagination having been our theme,
So also hath that intellectual Love,
For they are each in each, and cannot stand
Dividually. — 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. But joy to him,
Oh, joy to him who here hath sown, hath laid
Here, the foundation of his future years!
For all that friendship, all that love can do,
All that a darling countenance can look
Or dear voice utter, to complete the man,
Perfect him, made imperfect in himself,
All shall be his: and he whose soul hath risen
Up to the height of feeling intellect
Shall want no humbler tenderness; his heart
Be tender as a nursing mother’s heart;
Of female softness shall his life be full,
Of humble cares and delicate desires,

Mild interests and gentlest sympathies.

The independence of the individual is unambiguous here and has something of the broad sweep of Walt Whitman.

Be tender as a nursing mother’s heart” has an exact parallel in a Buddhist scripture which reads as follows:

Even as a mother protects with her life

her child, her only child

so with a boundless heart

should one cherish all living beings;

radiating kindness over the entire world;

freed from hatred and ill-will.

[part of the ‘loving-kindness verse’]

Book 14 is a fitting climax to Wordsworth’s Opus Magnum and achieves philosophical and psychological heights which not only illustrate the prospectus of Romanticism, but recapitulate his earlier ideas rather like the last movement of a symphony. I am in awe of The Prelude and look forward to comparing the three versions in the Norton Edition. I recommend it to anyone who has not read it in its entirety!