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  • louise
    Mary, Having been so rude to you in this my latest intemperate outburst, I have taken it into my head, remembering past times, and the mysteries of the Blue
    Message 1 of 1 , Jul 10, 2008
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      Having been so rude to you in this my latest intemperate outburst, I
      have taken it into my head, remembering past times, and the mysteries
      of the Blue Rose project, to post here a poem by Wordsworth
      (addressed to S.T. Coleridge) which I am hoping you might find a
      thing of beauty.



      Cambridge and the Alps

      I, too, have been a Wanderer; but, alas!
      How different is the fate of different men
      Though Twins almost in genius and in mind!
      Unknown unto each other, yea, and breathing
      As if in different elements, we were framed
      To bend at last to the same discipline,
      Predestin'd, if two Beings ever were,
      To seek the same delights, and have one health,
      One happiness. Throughout this narrative,
      Else sooner ended, I have known full well
      For whom I thus record the birth and growth
      Of gentleness, simplicity, and truth,
      And joyous loves that hallow innocent days
      Of peace and self-command. Of Rivers, Fields,
      And Groves, I speak to thee, my Friend; to thee,
      Who, yet a liveried School-Boy, in the depths
      Of the huge City, on the leaded Roof
      Of that wide Edifice, thy home and School,
      Wast used to lie and gaze upon the clouds
      Moving in Heaven; or haply, tired of this,
      To shut thine eyes, and by internal light
      See trees, meadows, and thy native Stream
      Far distant, thus beheld from year to year
      Of thy long exile. Nor could I forget
      In this late portion of my argument
      That scarcely had I finally resign'd
      My rights among those academic Bowers
      When Thou wert thither guided. From the heart
      Of London, and from Cloisters there Thou cam'st,
      And didst sit down in temperance and peace,
      A rigorous Student. What a stormy course
      Then follow'd. Oh! it is a pang that calls
      For utterance, to think how small a change
      Of circumstances might to Thee have spared
      A world of pain, ripen'd ten thousand hopes
      For ever wither'd. Through this retrospect
      Of my own College life I still have had
      Thy after sojourn in the self-same place
      Present before my eyes; I have played with times,
      (I speak of private business of the thought)
      And accidents as children do with cards,
      Or as a man, who, when his house is built,
      A frame lock'd up in wood and stone, doth still,
      In impotence of mind, by his fireside
      Rebuild it to his liking. I have thought
      Of Thee, thy learning, gorgeous eloquence
      And all the strength and plumage of thy Youth,
      Thy subtle speculations, toils abstruse
      Among the Schoolmen, and platonic forms
      Of wild ideal pageantry, shap'd out
      From thing well-match'd, or ill, and words for things,
      The self-created sustenance of a mind
      Debarr'd from Nature's living images,
      Compell'd to be a life unto itself,
      And unrelentingly possess'd by thirst
      Of greatness, love and beauty. Not alone,
      Ah! surely not in singleness of heart
      Should I have seen the light of evening fade
      Upon the silent Cam, if we had met,
      Even at that early time; I needs must hope,
      Must feel, must trust, that my maturer age,
      And temperature less willing to be mov'd,
      My calmer habits and more steady voice
      Would with an influence benign have sooth'd
      Or chas'd away the airy wretchedness
      That batten'd on thy youth. But thou has trod,
      In watchful mediation thou hast trod
      A march of glory, which doth put to shame
      These vain regrets; health suffers in thee; else
      Such grief for thee would be the weakest thought
      That ever harbour'd in the breast of man.
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