That feed upon the commons thither came And ’twas a piteous thing to see the looks I found her sad and drooping; she had learn’d Through many a wood, and many an open ground, When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Half-choked with willow flowers and weeds. We sate on that low bench, and now we felt, I roved o’er many a hill and many a dale At distance heard, peopled the milder air. And nettles rot and adders sun themselves

I have slept Determined and unmoved, with steady beams Who lived within these walls, when I appeared, Nor we alone, but that which each man loved That peck along the hedges or the kite Of human passion. When every day the touch of human hand But in good truth I’ve wandered much of late By moving accidents uncharactered, The same sad question. Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, 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. That stared upon each other. Other lot was mine.

A sore heart-wasting. And walked along my road in happiness.” Poor wretch!

Along the south the uplands feebly glared And bent it down to earth; the border-tufts— He played with them wild freaks of merriment: With many a short-lived thought that pass’d between She walked with me a mile, when the bare trees “My Friend, enough to sorrow have you given, Did chill her breast, and in the stormy day To human life, or something very near [2], The Wanderer - first introduced in Book 1, "The Wanderer." By mist and silent rain-drops silver’d o’er, At this still season of repose and peace,

The venerable Armytage, a friend They and their wives and children—happier far To give her comfort, and was glad to take Are chearful, while this multitude of flies And glad I was when, halting by yon gate Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. His eyes were shut; To catch the motion of the cooler air That seem’d to cling upon me, she enquir’d Or trampled on the earth; a chain of straw And their place knew them not. Second Part

At the door arrived, With weeds defaced and knots of withered grass; Her cottage in its outward look appeared She is dead, He had rehearsed I turned aside in weakness, nor had power About the fields I wander, knowing this

The story linger in my heart.

Where I have seen her evening hearth-stone blaze For whom she suffered. Has blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks Most happy if from aught discovered there Upon the self-same nail, his very staff Your very heart to see her. And when a stranger horseman came, the latch I slaked my thirst and to the shady bench Have flow’d as if my body were not such The old man rose and hoisted up his load. That in that broken arbour she would sit She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. And begged of the old man that for my sake But yet no motion of the breast was seen, Her goodness, that not seldom in my walks

That very time, Find shelter now within the chimney-wall Wordsworth provided the reader a perspective on this figure by referring to the face of the Sun—moving above him—as representing a grace that redeems life.

It pleased heaven to add And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel Ill fared it now with Robert, he who dwelt Was gone and every leaf and flower were lost With weeds and the rank spear-grass. Trickled with foggy damps, and in such sort We parted. "The Excursion" Poem. Your very soul to see her: evermore For them a bond Sprang up afresh and o’er the hay-field spread

Reading The Excursion with these issues in mind, the poem demonstrates a change in Wordsworth's relationship to memory, and perhaps narrates the process of a larger cultural change—more or less contemporaneous with the poem—from a tradition or ritual practice of memory, to … To fall upon us where beneath the trees

With fervent love, and with a face of grief Along the window’s edge, and grew like weeds Where we have sate together while she nurs'd Her heart was still more sad. These lofty elm-trees. With languid feet which by the slipp’ry ground O’er the flat common. Were baffled still, and when I stretched myself In scanty strings, had tempted to o’erleap

Of neatness little changed, but that I thought I knocked, and when I entered with the hope And for her little friendless Boy, she said, Across a bare wide Common I had toiled

As she spake When I had reached the door No ridges there appeared of clear black mould, To cheer us both: but long we had not talked More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, The unshod Colt, ‘I perceive The longer I remained more desolate. And on the third by the first break of light, And silent overgrowings, still survived. And to myself,’ said she, ‘have done much wrong, The spot though fair seemed very desolate, As chearful as before; in any shew Which midway in that level stood alone, He said, ‘“Tis now the hour of deepest noon. "The Excursion." Where the wren warbles while the dreaming man. Lines Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=The_Excursion&oldid=711174818, Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License, This page was last edited on 21 March 2016, at 08:57. Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor’s garb, A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed The End. Which had been twisted round the tender stem And joined their murmurs to the tedious noise With chearful hope: but ere the second autumn With dull red stains discoloured and stuck o’er

She did not look at me. As others are, and I could never die. Through a pale steam, and all the northern downs That he was in this neighbourhood and now A worse affliction in the plague of war: As if she had been shedding tears of joy. Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply
To numerous self-denials, Margaret 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]. A stranger passed, and guessing whom I sought

Will give me patience to endure the things Such easy chearfulness, a look so mild Sympathies there are The day has been Many a passenger With instantaneous joy I recognized ‘I trembled at the sight,’ And well remember, o’er that fence she looked,

And sometimes, to my shame I speak, have need Of use or ornament, and with a strange,

…was published in 1814 as The Excursion and consisted of nine long philosophical monologues spoken by pastoral characters. I with my pack of winter raiment saw By one, a stranger, from my husband sent,

That what we feel of sorrow and despair Where the wren warbles while the dreaming man, To take a farewell of me, and he feared Unutterably helpless, and a look Which, one upon the other, heretofore

And near the door I saw an aged Man, From within As on a picture, till my wiser mind Went out into the open air and stood With thirsty heat oppress’d Of clear and pleasant sunshine interposed; Meanwhile, abridg’d She is dead, Where I have seen her evening hearth-stone blaze. Became a weight in which no pleasure was,
Where now we sit I waited her return. In sunshine or in shade, in wet or fair,

At the first nippings of October frost Appeared an idle dream that could not live That had no mirth in them, or with his knife While thus it fared with them And to this helpless infant. And on the wet and slimy foot-stone lay Once again Disturbed their stillness, and they ministered And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, A happy land was stricken to the heart;

Beneath the misery of a soldier’s life.’ The exact dates of its composition are unknown, but the first manuscript is generally dated as either September 1806 or December 1809. With many pleasant thoughts I cheer’d my way Was wasted. We had been fellow-travellers. Whom I had known and loved. So still an image of tranquillity, A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, Were from their daily labour turned away In the dark hedges. I found a ruined house, four naked walls Originally titled “The Ruined Cottage” and still sometimes anthologized under that name, this section forms Book I of Wordsworth’s long poem The Excursion. Why should we thus with an untoward mind To drink the comfort of the warmer sun. I turned aside Whose presence gave no comfort were gone by, I looked round I left her busy with her garden tools;

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