Wordsworth's Poetical Works

Surprise bonus post!

I’ve posted a couple of poems out of my lovely antique Wordsworth before – but now I’ve finally finished it. It’s taken about 9 months to work my way through it, so it’s kind of a relief to have it out of the way now.

Many of his shorter poems are beautiful and pensive, or stirring with action and violence, but a lot of them, especially the longer ones, were harder to get through. I pride myself on never quitting once I start reading something, but even I couldn’t force myself to finish The Excursion, a 181-page blank verse epic consisting (judging from the first 30 pages or so) of the narrator wandering around the hills chatting to random people he meets and admiring the landscape.

It is a beautiful edition, and pretty old – there’s an inscription at the front dated 1867. Just holding a book that old feels wonderful, and it’s in great condition too considering it’s ex libris. Makes you think not that many people must have wanted to borrow it! Most of the gold leaf on the cover and outer pages remains, and the wonderful smooth leather feels amazing to hold. I wish people put as much effort into bookbinding as they did in those days. A book was forever, not just a throwaway read for the summer holidays, to be left on the train on the way home.

Sonnet - William Wordsworth

I'm working my way through Wordsworth's Poetical Works at the moment (1867 edition, or possibly earlier - definitely the oldest in my collection so far), and came across a sonnet, entitled simply 'Written in London, September, 1802'. Sorry about the poor quality of the image, my camera phone doesn't like taking pictures in focus of anything less than a couple of metres away. The text on the inside cover reads: "A birthday gift from Mrs Pearson, Febry 7th 1867". It was in the library of the University of Wales, Aberystwyth, until presumably being sold ex libris at some point, and then was discovered in a second-hand bookshop by me a couple of years ago.

I was struck by how relevant the sentiment of this sonnet is today - this is essentially a complaint about materialism and celebrity culture ruining the standards of life, written more than 200 years ago.

O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, oppress'd
To think that now our life is only dress'd
For show: mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now, in Nature or in book,
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone, our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.