The Prelude or Growth of a Poet's Mind: By William Wordsworth: Edited from the manuscripts with introduction, textual and critical notes by Ernest de Selincourt |
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 | The Prelude |  |
358
From that time forth he never utter'd word
To any living. An Inhabitant
Of that same Town in which the Pair had left
So lively a remembrance of their griefs
By chance of business coming within reach
Of his retirement to the spot repair'd
With the intent to visit him: he reach'd
The house and only found the Matron there,
Who told him that his pains were thrown away,
For that her Master never uttered word
To living soul—not even to her. Behold
While they were speaking, Vaudracour approach'd;
But, seeing some one there, just as his hand
Was stretch'd towards the garden-gate, he shrunk,
And like a shadow glided out of view.
Shock'd at his savage outside, from the place
The Visitor retired.
To any living. An Inhabitant
Of that same Town in which the Pair had left
So lively a remembrance of their griefs
By chance of business coming within reach
Of his retirement to the spot repair'd
With the intent to visit him: he reach'd
The house and only found the Matron there,
Who told him that his pains were thrown away,
For that her Master never uttered word
To living soul—not even to her. Behold
While they were speaking, Vaudracour approach'd;
But, seeing some one there, just as his hand
Was stretch'd towards the garden-gate, he shrunk,
And like a shadow glided out of view.
Shock'd at his savage outside, from the place
The Visitor retired.
Thus liv'd the Youth
Cut off from all intelligence with Man,
And shunning even the light of common day;
Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France
Soon afterwards resounded, public hope,
Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs,
Rouse him: but in those solitary shades
His days he wasted, an imbecile mind.
Cut off from all intelligence with Man,
And shunning even the light of common day;
Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France
Soon afterwards resounded, public hope,
Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs,
Rouse him: but in those solitary shades
His days he wasted, an imbecile mind.
| The Prelude | |