![]() He described the Prelude as “a poem on the growth of my own mind” with “contrasting views of Man, Nature, and Society”. He explores memories of important events in his life and his travels. Though epics are usually about heroic deeds and events, The Prelude portrays an internal journey, in this extract the story of Wordsworth’s spiritual growth, and how he comes to terms with his place in nature and the world. It was published three months after his death in 1850. The first version was written in 1799 but Wordsworth continued to refine it throughout his life. The Prelude, an autobiographic epic poem in 14 sections, is said to be one of the greatest works of English literature. No familiar shapes Remained, no pleasant images of trees, Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields But huge and mighty forms, that do not live Like living men, moved slowly through the mind By day, and were a trouble to my dreams With trembling oars I turned, And through the silent water stole my way Back to the covert of the willow tree There in her mooring-place I left my bark, - And through the meadows homeward went, in grave And serious mood but after I had seen That spectacle, for many days, my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being o'er my thoughts There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion. I struck and struck again, And growing still in stature the grim shape Towered up between me and the stars, and still, For so it seemed, with purpose of its own And measured motion like a living thing, Strode after me. She was an elfin pinnace lustily I dipped my oars into the silent lake, And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat Went heaving through the water like a swan When, from behind that craggy steep till then The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge, As if with voluntary power instinct, Upreared its head. But now, like one who rows, Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point With an unswerving line, I fixed my view Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, The horizon's utmost boundary far above Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky. It was an act of stealth And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on Leaving behind her still, on either side, Small circles glittering idly in the moon, Until they melted all into one track Of sparkling light. Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in Pushed from the shore. One summer evening (led by her) I found A little boat tied to a willow tree Within a rocky cove, its usual home.
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