Wordsworth [antikvár]

WORDSWOKTH I Wordsworth, as De Quincey said, is one of the great poets who have made themselves necessary to the humán heart. These poets reach down to what is at the core of our experience and they are humble and simple before it. What they know, they feel with an intensity of feeling, and they express what they know with a divine directness. Shakespeare is one of them: Dost thou not see my baby at my breast That sucks the nurse asleep ? (Cleopatra with the asp) Ye are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep (Prospero in The Tempest) And Milton: While yet we live Scarce one short hour perhaps, between us two Let there be peace (Eve to Adam after the Fali) O dark, dark, dark amid the blaze of noon (Sámson Agonistes blind) Wordsworth no less: There is a comfort in the strength of love, 'Twill make a thing endurable which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart ('MichaeF) The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills ('The Song of Brougham Castle') To approach Wordsworth and to read him as he ought to be read, we of the twentieth century must push our way