Resolution and Independence - William Wordsworth

 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE

 

I

There was a roaring in the wind all night;

The rain came heavily and fell in floods;

But now the sun is rising calm and bright;

The birds are singing in the distant woods;

Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;

The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

 

II

All things that love the sun are out of doors;

The sky rejoices in the morning’s birth;

The grass is bright with rain-drops; —on the moors

The hare is running races in her mirth;

And with her feet she from the plashy earth

Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun,

Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

 

III

I was a Traveller then upon the moor;

I saw the hare that raced about with joy;

I heard the woods and distant waters roar;

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: 

The pleasant season did my heart employ:

My old remembrances went from me wholly;

And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

 

IV

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might

Of joy in minds that can no further go,

As high as we have mounted in delight

In our dejection do we sink as low;

To me that morning did it happen so;

And fears and fancies thick upon me came;

Dim sadness —and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.

 

V

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;

And I bethought me of the playful hare:

Even such a happy Child of earth am I;

Even as these blissful I walk, and from all care;

But there may come another day to me—

Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

 

VI

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,

As if life’s business were a summer mood;

As if all needful things would come unsought

To genial faith, still rich in genial good;

But how can He expect that others should

Build for him, sow foe him, and at his call 

Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

 

VII

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,

The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;

Of Him who walked in glory and in joy

Following his plough, along the mountain-side:

By our own spirits are we deified:

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;

But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

 

VIII

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,

A leading from above, a something given,

Yet it befell that, in this lonely place,

When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,

Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 

I saw a Man before me unawares:

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

 

IX

As a huge stone is sometimes seem to lie

Couched on the bald top of an eminence;

Wonder to all who do the same espy,

By what means it could thither come, and whence;

So that it seems a thing endued with sense:

Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf

Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

 

X

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,

Nor all asleep —in his extreme old age:

His body was bent double, feet and head

Coming together in life’s pilgrimage;

As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage

Of sickness felt by him in times long past,

A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

 

XI

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,

Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:

And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,

Upon the margin of that Moorish flood

Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood,

That heareth not the loud winds when they call;

And moveth all together, if it move at all.

 

XII

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond

Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look

Upon the muddy water, which he conned,

As if he had been reading in a book;

And now a stranger’s privilege I took;

And, drawing to his side, to him did say,

“This morning gives us promise of a glorious day,”

 

XIII

A gentle answer did the old Man make,

In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:

And him with further words I thus bespake,

“What occupation do you there pursue?

This is a lonesome place for one like you.”

Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise

Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.

 

XIV

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,

But each in solemn order followed each,

With something of a lofty utterance drest—

Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach

Of ordinary men; a stately speech;

Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,

Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

 

XV

He told, that to these waters he had come

To gather leeches, being old and poor:

Employment hazardous and wearisome!

And he had many hardships to endure:

From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;

Housing, with God’s good help, by choice or chance:

And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

 

XVI

The old Man still stood talking by my side;

But now his voice to me was like a stream

Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;

And the shole body of the Man did seem

Like one whom I had met with in a dream;

Or like a man from some far region sent,

To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

 

XVII

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;

And hope that is unwilling to be fed;

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills:

And mighty Poets in their misery dead.

—Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,

My question eagerly did I renew,

“How is it that you live, and what is it you do?”

 

XVIII

He with a smile did then his words repeat;

And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide

He travelled; stirring thus about his feet

That waters of the pools where they abide

“Once I could meet with them on every side;

But they have dwindled long by slow decay;

Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.”

 

                                    XIX

While he was talking thus, the lonely place,

The old Man’s shape, and speech —all troubled me:

In my mind’s eye I seemed to see him pace

About the weary moors continually,

Wandering about alone and silently.

While I these thoughts within myself pursued.

He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

 

                                   XX

And soon with this he other matter blended,

Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,

But stately in the main; and, when he ended,

I could have laughed myself to scorn to find

In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.

“God”, said I, “be my help and stay secure;

I’ll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!”

 

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—William Wordsworth

 

 

 

 Resolution and Independence – William Wordsworth

 

“Resolution and Independence” is a narrative poem written by the renowned English Romantic Poet William Wordsworth. The poem first published in 1807 as part of his collection “Poems in Two Volumes”, delves into the themes of nature, human perseverance, and the wisdom of experience. 

 

The poem recounts a speaker’s encounter with an old, humble leech-gatherer (a person who collects medicinal leeches) during a solitary walk in the country side. The speaker is initially filled with feelings of despondency and doubt, contemplating the struggles and uncertainties of life. However, upon meeting the leech-gatherer, the speaker witnesses a contrasting example of resilience and fortitude in the face of hardship.

 

The leech-gatherer is portrayed as an emblem of steadfastness and resolution. Despite his old age and arduous profession, he maintains a cheerful and contented demeanor, deriving wisdom from his long experience with the natural world. Through their conversation, the speaker comes to appreciate the wisdom that can be gained through endurance and patient observation of nature’s cycles.  

 

The poem presents a stark contrast between the speaker’s initial melancholy and the leech-gatherer’s unyielding spirit, ultimately leading to a sense of moral rejuvenation and hope for the future. The encounter serves as a reminder of the profound lessons that nature and human experience can offer, encouraging the speaker, and by extension, the reader, to find solace and strength in life’s trials and tribulations.

 

“Resolution and Independence” exemplifies Wordsworth’s signature themes of the power of nature, the beauty of simplicity and the transformative potential of encounters with ordinary people. It remains an enduring work that highlights the Romantic Belief in the redemptive qualities of the natural world and indomitable spirit of the human soul.

 

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SNAKE - D H Lawrence

 SNAKE – D H Lawrence

 

A snake came to my water-trough

On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,

To drink there.

 

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree

I came down the steps with my pitcher

And must wait, stand and wait, for there he was at 

the trough before me.

 

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in 

the gloom

And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down,

over the edge of the stone trough

And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,

And where the water had dripped from the tap,

in a small clearness,

He sipped with his straight mouth,

Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack

long body,

Silently.

 

Someone was before me at my water-trough,

And I, like a second comer, waiting.

 

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,

And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,

And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips,

and mused a moment,

And stooped and drank a little more,

Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning

bowels of the earth,

On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.

 

The voice of my education said to me 

He must be killed,

For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent,

the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man

You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

 

But must I confess how I liked him,

How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet,

to drink at my water-trough

And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,

Into the burning bowels of this earth?

 

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?

Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?

Was it humility, to feel so honoured?

I I felt so honoured.

 

And yet those voices;

If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

 

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,

But even so, honoured still more

That he should seek my hospitality

From out the dark door of the secret earth.

 

He drank enough

And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,

And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air,

so black,

Seeming to lick his lips,

And looked around like a god, unseeing into the air,

 

And slowly turned his head,

And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,

Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round

And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

 

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,

And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders,

and entered farther,

A sort of horror, a sort of protest against is withdrawing

into that horrid black hole,

Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing

himself after,

Overcame me now his back was turned.

 

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,

I picked up a clumsy log

And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

 

 

I think it did not hit him,

But suddenly that part of him that was left behind

convulsed in undignified haste,

Writhed like lightning and was gone

Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,

At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

 

And immediately I regretted it.

I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!

I despised myself and the voices of my accursed

human education.

 

 

And I thought of the albatross,

And I wished he would come back, my snake.

 

For e seemed to me again like a king,

Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,

Now due to be crowned again,

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords

Of life.

And I have something to expiate;

A pettiness.

 

 

 

Taormina

 

 

 

 

 SNAKE – D.H. LAWRENCE

 

D.H. Lawrence’s poem “Snake” is complex and evocative piece that explores themes of human nature, respect for nature, and the conflict between intellect and instinct. The poem is written in first person and describes an encounter between speaker and a snake that comes to drink at the speaker’s water trough. The speaker is initially dilled with conflicting emotions of fear and fascination as they observe the snake.

 

Throughout the poem, Lawrence delves into the speaker’s thoughts and emotions, highlighting their internal struggle between the fear instilled by societal norms and the instinctual respect for nature and its creatures. The snake is depicted as majestic and ancient creature, embodying a sense of primordial wisdom and natural rhythm.

 

The turning point of the poem occurs when the speaker decides to act on their instincts and not succumb to the fear-driven impulse to kill the snake. Instead, the speaker allows the snake to drink peacefully and even consider it a kind of honoured guest. This choice represents a moment of revelation for the speaker, as they come to realize the beauty and significance of coexisting with nature without trying to dominate or destroy it. 

 

The poem concludes with a sense of regret and longing as the snake slowly retreats into the undergrowth. The speaker reflects on their own inability to fully embrace their instinctual connection with nature due to societal constraints and the conditioning of civilization.

 

In summary, “Snake” by D.H. Lawrence is a reflective and introspective poem that uses the encounter with a snake as a metaphor for exploring the tension between human intellect and primal instincts, as well as the desire to find harmony with the natural world. 

 

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SISTER HELEN -- Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 SISTER HELEN  

—Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 

“Why did you melt your waxen man,

Sister Helen?

To-day is the third since you began.”

“The time was long, yet the time ran, 

Little brother.”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Three days to-day between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“But if you have done your work aright,

Sister Helen,

You’ll let me play, for you said I might.”

“Be very still in your play to-night,

Little brother.”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“You said it must melt ere vesper bell,

Sister Helen;

If now it be molten, all is well.”

“Even so, —nay, peace! You cannot tell,

Little brother.”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

O what is this, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“Oh, the waxen knave was plump to-day,

Sister Helen;

How like dead folk he has dropped away!”

“Nay now, of the dead what can you say,

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“See, See, the sunken pile of wood,

Sister Helen,

Shines through the tinned wax red as blood!”

“Nay now, when looked you yet on blood,

Little brother?”

 

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“Now close your eyes, for they’re sick and sore,

Sister Helen,

And I’ll play without the gallery door,”

“Aye, let me rest, —I’ll lie on the floor,

Little brother.”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“Here high up in the balcony,

Sister Helen,

The moon flies face to face with me.”

“Aye, look and say whatever you see,

Little brother.”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“Outside it’s merry in the wind’s wake,

Sister Helen;

In the shaken trees the chill stars shake.”

“Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake,

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

What sound to-night between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“I here a horse-tread, and I see

Sister Helen,

Three horsemen that ride terribly.”

“Little brother, whence come the three,

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother Mary Mother,

Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar,

Sister Helen,

And one draws nigh, but two are afar.”

“Look, look, do you know them who they are, 

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Who should they be, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“Oh, it’s Keith of Fastholm rides so fast,

Sister Helen,

For I know the white mane on the blast.”

“The hour has come, has come at last, 

Little brother!”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“He has made a sign and called Halloo!

Sister Helen,

And he says that he would speak with you.”

“Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew, 

Little brother.”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“The wind is loud, but I hear him cry,

Sister Helen,

That Keith of Ewern’s like to die.”

“And he and thou, and thou and I,

Little brother.”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“Three days ago, on his marriage-morn,

Sister Helen,

He sickened, and lies since then forlorn.”

“For bridegroom’s side is the bride a thorn,

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“Three days and nights he has lain abed,

Sister Helen,

And he prays in torment to be dead.”

“The thing may chance, if he have prayed,

Little brother!”

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“But he has not ceased to cry to-day,

Sister Helen,

That you should take your curse away.”

“My prayer was heard, —he need but pray,

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“But he says, till you take back your ban,

Sister Helen,

His soul would pass, yet never can.”

“Nay then, shall I slay a living man,

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

A living soul, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“But he calls for ever on your name,

Sister Helen,

And says that he melts before a flame.”

“My heart for his pleasure fared the same,

Little brother.”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“Here’s Keith of Westholm riding fast,

Sister Helen,

For I know the white plume on the blast.”

“The hour, the sweet hour I forecast,

Little brother!”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, 

Sister Helen;

But his words are drowned in the wind’s course.”

“Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce,

Little brother!”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

A word ill heard, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“Oh he says that Keith of Ewern’s cry,

Sister Helen,

Is ever to see you ere he die.”

“I’m all that his soul sees, this am I, 

Little brother!’

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

The soul’s one sight, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“He sends a ring and a broken coin,

Sister Helen,

And bids you mind the banks of Boyne.”

“What else he broke will he ever join,

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“He yields you these and craves full fain,

Sister Helen,

You pardon him in his mortal pain.”

“What else he took will he give again,

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“He calls your name in an agony,

Sister Helen,

That even dead Love must weep to see.”

“Hate, born of Love, is blind as he,

Little brother!”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven!) 

 

 

“Oh it’s Keith of Keith now that rides fast,

Sister Helen,

For I know the white hair on the blast.”

“The short, short hour will soon be past,

Little brother!”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Will soon be past between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“He looks at me and he tries to speak,

Sister Helen,

But oh! His voice is sad and weak!”

“What here should the mighty Baron seek,

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“Oh his son still cries, if you forgive,

Sister Helen,

The body dies but the soul shall live.”

“Fire shall forgive me as I forgive,

Little brother!”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

And she forgives between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“Oh he prays you, as this hear would rive,

Sister Helen,

To save his dear son’s soul alive.”

“Fire cannot stay it, it shall thrive,

Little brother!”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“He cries to you, kneeling in the road,

Sister Helen,

To go with him for the love of God!”

“The way is long to his son’s abode,

Little brother.”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“O Sister Helen, you heard the bell,

Sister Helen,

More loud than the vesper-chime it fell.”

“No vesper-chime, but a dying knell,

Little brother!”

 

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“Alas! but I fear the heavy sound,

Sister Helen;

Is it in the sky or in the ground?”

“Say, have they turned their horses round,

Little brother?”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?)

 

 

“They have raised the old man from his knee,

Sister Helen,

And they ride in silence hastily.”

“More fast the naked soul doth flee,

Little brother!”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“Flank to flank are the three steeds gone,

Sister Helen,

But the lady’s dark steed goes alone.”

“And lonely her bridegroom’s soul hath flown,

Little brother.”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother

Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill,

Sister Helen,

And weary sad they look by the hill.”

“But he and I are sadder still,

Little brother!”

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“See, see, the wax has dropped from its place,

Sister Helen,

And the flames are winning up apace!”

“Yet here they burn but for a space,

Little brother!”

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

 

“Ah! What white thing at the door has cross’d,

Sister Helen,

Ah! What is this that sighs in the frost?”

“A soul that’s lost as mine is lost,

Little brother!”

 

 

(O Mother, Mary Mother,

Lost lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!)

 

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 SISTER HELEN – DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI  (Summary)

 

“Sister Helen” is a narrative poem by the English poet and painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The poem was published in 1881 as part of Rossetti’s collection titled “Ballads and Sonnets”. It tells the story of a woman named sister Helen who seeks revenge on a man named James. The poem is inspired by the ballad traditions and combines elements of Gothic horror and supernatural themes.

 

The poem begins with Sister Helen speaking to her brother, who is a priest. She tells him about her encounter with James, a man who had betrayed and abandoned her, causing her to suffer greatly. She asks her brother for guidance on how to seek revenge on James for the wrongs he has done to her.  

 

The brother advises Sister Helen to pray for James and not to seek revenge, as vengeance is not her role as a nun. However, sister Helen is consumed by anger and desire for revenge. She rejects her brother’s advice and decides to use black magic to cast a spell on James, with the help of a witch. 

 

Sister Helen and the witch gather ingredients for the spell, including a wax effigy of James, a vial of her own blood, and various herbs and potions. They perform the dark ritual, invoking supernatural forces to curse James. The ritual involves symbolic actions like melting the wax effigy and chanting incantations.

 

As the spell progresses, Sister Helen begins to experience the consequences of her actions. Her chamber becomes filled with a noxious smell, and she hears eerie sounds. She starts to have doubts and fears about the path she has chosen. The poem vividly describes the eerie and unsetting atmosphere as the ritual unfolds.

 

Eventually, the spell seems to take effect. James falls ill and is tormented by disturbing visions and hallucinations. He believes he sees Sister Helen and is haunted by her presence. Despite his suffering, he does not die immediately.

 

Sister Helen is tormented by guilt and remorse for what she has done. She realizes that her desire for revenge has led down a dark and destructive path. She prays for forgiveness and redemption, acknowledging the consequences of her actions.

 

The poem ends with Sister Helen’s brother finding her dead body in her chamber. The implications are that her attempt to seek revenge through dark magic ultimately led to her own downfall and death. 

 

The poem “Sister Helen” explores themes of revenge, morality, supernatural forces, and the consequences of one’s actions. It serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of succumbing to vengeful desires and dabbling in forbidden powers. 

 

 

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