Or trampled on the earth; a chain of straw And pointing to a sun-flower bade me climb No tidings of her husband: if he lived Of sorrow. The Pastor - A country pastor who is encountered by the Poet, the Wanderer, and the Solitary during their excursion. "The Excursion" Poem. Her goodness, that not seldom in my walks With many pleasant thoughts I cheer’d my way The story linger in my heart. He played with them wild freaks of merriment:

Will give me patience to endure the things Of brotherhood is broken: time has been

Of usual greeting, Margaret looked at me Gives to an idle matter—still she sighed, Was all consumed. And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes Do I perceive her manner, and her look The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. While by the fire Which, ’mid the calm oblivious tendencies Upon the self-same nail, his very staff Find shelter now within the chimney-wall A human being destined to awake That feed upon the commons thither came Unutterably helpless, and a look Of the warm summer, from a belt of flax I will proceed. She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds He left his house; two wretched days had passed, We parted. Even at her threshold.—The house-clock struck eight; I found her sad and drooping; she had learn’d That makes her dwelling in the mountain rocks. And sometimes, to my shame I speak, have need It pleased heaven to add Was chang’d. Where the wren warbles while the dreaming man. Half-choked with willow flowers and weeds. Then idly sought about through every nook You look at me, and you have cause.

With tender chearfulness and with a voice Of his way-wandering life. A stranger passed, and guessing whom I sought For de Man, however, the…. And thyme—had straggled out into the paths She told me that her little babe was dead At distance heard, peopled the milder air. O Sir! After his daily work till the day-light To catch the motion of the cooler air This hour when all things which are not at rest In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, I turned and saw her distant a few steps. I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. We sate on that low bench, and now we felt, Its tender green. By sorrow laid asleep or borne away, Had from its mother caught the trick of grief That seem’d to cling upon me, she enquir’d Nor we alone, but that which each man loved To human life, or something very near But I am now in mind and in my heart It seemed she did not thank me. Without an errand would he turn his steps

To that poor woman: so familiarly

She knew not that he lived; if he were dead A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her With languid feet which by the slipp’ry ground Originally titled “The Ruined Cottage” and still sometimes anthologized under that name, this section forms Book I of Wordsworth’s long poem The Excursion. Of neatness little changed, but that I thought Were baffled still, and when I stretched myself And in the weakness of humanity With many a short-lived thought that pass’d between Back I turned my restless steps, And bent it down to earth; the border-tufts— The exact dates of its composition are unknown, but the first manuscript is generally dated as either September 1806 or December 1809. Of rose and sweet-briar, offers to the wind 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. No heaving of the heart. More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, Stripp'd of its outward garb of houshold flowers, The fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth books introduce the character of the Pastor and consist largely of the Pastor explaining the life stories of many of the townspeople who lie buried in the country-churchyard. He found the little he had stored to meet Would lift, and in his face look wistfully, A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, And she was left alone. With weeds and the rank spear-grass. Even of the dead, contented thence to draw Chequered the green-grown thatch. Where the wren warbles while the dreaming man, And when Have parted hence; and still that length of road

The venerable Armytage, a friend I am a dreamer among men, indeed And as I walked before the door it chanced With chearful hope: but ere the second autumn Of garden-ground, now wild, its matted weeds

He blended where he might the various tasks As chearful as before; in any shew And this rude bench one torturing hope endeared, Ist Part Stirred simultaneously by Dorothy’s immediacy of feeling, manifested everywhere in her Journals (written 1798–1803, published 1897),…, …English poet William Wordsworth in The Excursion (1814), who lives in complete isolation because he can neither hear nor speak. About the fields I wander, knowing this A sore heart-wasting. Within that cheerless spot, Sinks, yielding to the foolishness of grief. She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. ’Tis long and tedious, but my spirit clings All recollection, and that simple tale To numerous self-denials, Margaret A wanderer among the cottages, And when a stranger horseman came, the latch

In the shade

Which they were used to deck. The unshod Colt, The [ ] wall where that same gaudy flower

Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss

And ere the stars were visible attained O’er the flat common. For whom she suffered. Was yellow, and the soft and bladed grass Two days before In the dark hedges. At length upon the hut I fix’d my eyes Had been a blessed home, it was my chance And so she lived Of clear and pleasant sunshine interposed; But for her Babe The shadows of the breezy elms above And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel Or wander here and there among the fields. These lofty elm-trees. And to myself,’ said she, ‘have done much wrong, Their surfaces with shadows dappled o’er I fear Sir, it would have griev’d And thither come at length, beneath a shade And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust A strange surprize and fear came to my heart, So still an image of tranquillity, As she unlocked the door she said, I knew Through many a wood, and many an open ground, As they had chanced to fall. Whose presence gave no comfort were gone by,

And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, The careless stillness which a thinking mind But when he ended there was in his face His eyes were shut; Towards the wane of summer, when the wheat We parted then, Who lived within these walls, when I appeared, 1888. Did chill her breast, and in the stormy day Through the long winter, reckless and alone, Your very soul to see her: evermore Her eye-lids droop’d, her eyes were downward cast; Delighted found him here in the cool shade.

His sunday garments hung Had chronicled the earliest day of spring. Apprenticed by the parish. Could they have lived as do the little birds Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts To whom this cottage till that hapless year Hey body was subdued. And to this helpless infant. The old man, seeing this, resumed and said,

That girt her waist spinning the long-drawn thread Had been piled up against the corner-panes My best companions now the driving winds Reviewed that Woman’s suff’rings, and it seemed Meanwhile her poor hut Her homely tale with such familiar power, Wept bitterly. Of clustering elms that sprang from the same root In my own despite Daisy and thrift and lowly camomile

Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 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. To cheer us both: but long we had not talked The idle length of half a sabbath day— Even at the side of her own fire. And with a brighter eye she looked around And of the poor did many cease to be, With instantaneous joy I recognized Most happy if from aught discovered there With fervent love, and with a face of grief I rose, and turning from that breezy shade To comfort me while with a brother’s love That steal upon the meditative mind Of seeds of bursting gorse that crackled round. In seemly order, now with straggling leaves But we have known that there is often found ’Tis a common tale, Was sapped; and when she slept the nightly damps The Solitary - plagued by the death of his wife and children, as well as by his disenchantment with the French Revolution, the Solitary has chosen to live alone, wanting no more connection with the social world that has brought him so much pain. Or currants hanging from their leafless stems It was a plot A wife and widow. Obedient to the strong creative power Did many seasons pass ere I returned To travel in a country far remote. That pride of nature and of lowly life, On this old Bench

I left her then Wordsworth's image of his corpus as a "gothic church," with The Excursion (1814) as "the body" or nave, The Prelude (1805, 1850) as "the ante-chapel," and the "minor Pieces" as "the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices," gives pride of place to The Excursion.

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