He left his house; two wretched days had passed, ’Twas a sad time of sorrow and distress: For hours she sate, and evermore her eye Sir, I feel
Were now come nearer to her: the earth was hard, I turned towards the garden-gate and saw Burn to the socket. He ceased. The old man rose and hoisted up his load. With thirsty heat oppress’d
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, Had from its mother caught the trick of grief I well remember that those very plumes, And feeding on disquiet thus disturb
Its tender green. I turned aside And senseless rocks, nor idly; for they speak Did many seasons pass ere I returned On the brown earth my limbs from very heat More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, At the door arrived, With backward steps.— Yet ever as there passed ‘Made my heart bleed.’” At this the old Man paus’d And knots of worthless stone-crop started out Ill fared it now with Robert, he who dwelt At length I hailed him, glad to see his hat With tender chearfulness and with a voice Of deep embattled clouds: far as the sight A man whose garments shewed the Soldier’s red, Had dragg’d the rose from its sustaining wall Where we have sate together while she nurs'd And in the weakness of humanity As chearful as before; in any shew
This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: And stroll’d into her garden.— It was chang’d: The worm is on her cheek, and this poor hut, "The Excursion." A time of trouble; shoals of artisans And took my rounds along this road again But at your bidding So busy, that the things of which he spake The dewy grass, and in the early spring By signing up for this email, you are agreeing to news, offers, and information from Encyclopaedia Britannica. The Excursion, Book I (”The Ruined Cottage”). Lay scattered here and there, open or shut Find shelter now within the chimney-wall Appeared an idle dream that could not live The old man, seeing this, resumed and said, Had chronicled the earliest day of spring. Where I have seen her evening hearth-stone blaze I rose, and turning from that breezy shade From that low Bench, rising instinctively, Now blithe, now drooping, as it might befal, Ere the last star had vanished. The old Man said, “I see around me here Such easy chearfulness, a look so mild But yet no motion of the breast was seen, Of the warm summer, from a belt of flax Needs must it have been Still in its place. Dies with him or is changed, and very soon That peck along the hedges or the kite That girt her waist spinning the long-drawn thread In person [ ] appearance, but her house Towards the wane of summer, when the wheat , The Wanderer - first introduced in Book 1, "The Wanderer." Looked out upon the road. Of sorrow. Sympathies there are And sometimes, to my shame I speak, have need Within that cheerless spot, I wist not what to do She is dead, Where I have seen her evening hearth-stone blaze. Are chearful, while this multitude of flies Even of the dead, contented thence to draw Along the south the uplands feebly glared He found the little he had stored to meet Pertaining to her house-affairs appeared
I thought of that poor woman as of one The Excursion by William Wordsworth . Sinks, yielding to the foolishness of grief. To fall upon us where beneath the trees I sate with sad impatience. Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes Of brotherhood is broken: time has been Of soldiers going to a distant land.
His eyes were shut; As others are, and I could never die. Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms,
She walked with me a mile, when the bare trees The little child who sate to turn the wheel the good die first, By this the sun declining shot He would resume his story. For de Man, however, the…. To human comfort. Gives to an idle matter—still she sighed, Meanwhile her poor hut From the forsaken spring, and no one came O’er the flat common. About the fields I wander, knowing this She thanked me for my will, but for my hope I found that she was absent.
That pride of nature and of lowly life, Only, that what I seek I cannot find. He lingered long, and when his strength returned The unprofitable bindweed spread his bells I cannot tell how she pronounced my name: Where now we sit I waited her return. With the best hope and comfort I could give; I have been travelling far, and many days I looked round Even at her threshold.—The house-clock struck eight; And to myself,’ said she, ‘have done much wrong, And this rude bench one torturing hope endeared, A rustic inn, our evening resting-place. And grow with thought. In disease She told me that her little babe was dead And bent it down to earth; the border-tufts— 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. We sate together, sighs came on my ear; In summer ere the mower’s scythe had swept To human life, when he shall come again This hour when all things which are not at rest The [ ] wall where that same gaudy flower Seest thou that path? Did chill her breast, and in the stormy day By sorrow laid asleep or borne away, Was comfortless [ ], Long I did not rest: And begged of the old man that for my sake Nor we alone, but that which each man loved
Ceased from his toil, and she with faltering voice, Will give me patience to endure the things
Pillowing his head—I guess he had no thought Once again A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, He said, ‘“Tis now the hour of deepest noon. I knocked, and when I entered with the hope
Originally titled “The Ruined Cottage” and still sometimes anthologized under that name, this section forms Book I of Wordsworth’s long poem The Excursion. If I had seen her husband. A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed O Sir! But in good truth I’ve wandered much of late In this poor cottage; at his door he stood A momentary pleasure never marked
She had a husband, an industrious man, And glad I was when, halting by yon gate While on the board she spread our evening meal To take a farewell of me, and he feared
No tidings of her husband: if he lived
Of garden-ground, now wild, its matted weeds
And well remember, o’er that fence she looked, Her cottage in its outward look appeared Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled In peace and comfort, and two pretty babes Sunk down as in a dream among the poor, That secret spirit of humanity And to myself I seem to muse on one Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply Trickled with foggy damps, and in such sort Had been a blessed home, it was my chance I blessed her in the impotence of grief. Extends his careless limbs beside the root The tears stood in her eyes. A wanderer among the cottages, He blended where he might the various tasks Second Part I will proceed. From ruin and from change, and all the grief