TENSION IN THE LANDSCAPE - PART THREE

And now to Wordsworth.

Imagine being in Wordsworth’s bedroom!

Imagine looking out of his bedroom window!

Imagine looking into the rain . . . and thinking if only the water weren’t tipping down quite so heartily, one could look around the four acres of gardens he designed.

If you enlarge the photo taken from Wordsworth's bedroom window - you will see the rain! August 11th 2011

(With the exception of a few late Victorian additions they are as he intended.)

This post could have appeared earlier if only I hadn’t spent so much time trying to fill it out. I’ve been floundering around in the French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars, the vegetable garden in the house where Wordsworth grew up, the relationship between nature and sin, the time he spent in Dorset (yes! Dorset - at the foot of Pilsdon Pen!) wondering if I’d need to read his poem ‘The Prelude’ twice - does it matter to me (us) whether he was a monotheist or not? . . . I’ve been all round the houses . . . I’ve learnt a lot but . . . well, really, all I did in the first place was run from my tent in the field next door, up the stairs of his house - and look out of his bedroom window onto a rain-sodden garden before dashing off to Edinburgh.

But that’s something!

Until I went there, I hadn’t realised he was a garden designer as well as not-my-favourite poet . . . except - the longer I’ve lived with this post, the more his work’s been growing on me.

. . .  At the beginning of this series about the gardens of Rydal, I included his poem 'Composed Upon Westminster Bridge'. I’ll finish with another. Forget ‘Daffodils’. Imagine standing at this window, looking into the rain and thinking, “Wow! I’m here! Just look at that view! I must tell . . .” and you turn to share your pleasure with someone you love dearly, someone who’s always there . . . but no . . .  they are there no longer . . . and you are filled with guilt that you could ever, ever, even for a moment, have forgotten their death.

Surprised by joy - impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport - Oh! With whom
But thee, long buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind - 
But how could I forget thee? - Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? - That thought's return
Was the worse pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

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In 1805, Wordsworth's brother was killed in a shipwreck off the coast of Dorset. In 1812, two of Wordsworth's children died. This poem was first published in 1815.

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Wordsworth 1770 - 1850

Lived at Rydal Mount 1813 - 1850
Poet Laureate 1843 - 1850
We camped at Rydal August 2011

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