I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
I’ve read this beautiful poem by Wordsworth many times before, and I’m sure when I did, I appreciated its imagery, its form, its feeling, and everything else that’s wonderful about it. For some reason, though, when I recently read “I wandered lonely as a cloud” again, it struck me so deeply. Now, I appreciate all different types of poetry, and all genres of literature, but I think part of my renewed fascination with Wordsworth’s work is that I read it in an anthology while also reading other more modern poetry. Compared to these other poems, good ol’ William’s just seemed so much better. Now that I’m writing this, I think this conclusion I’ve come to probably just stems from my personal interest. In other words, maybe Wordsworth isn’t necessarily better than Jack Ridl or Ted Kooser; maybe I just like him more. Maybe my preference for Wordsworth says more about me than it does about the other poets’ work, no? After all, I, Shelley, am Wordsworth’s peer, right? So it only makes sense that I can more closely identify with his work than with that of the others.
I think a big reason why I connected so strongly to “I wandered lonely as a cloud” is because I specifically identified with the speaker. Often times, I will experience the beauty and magnificence of nature, and consequently, I will take the same journey that the speaker of the poem takes. I will wander along, I will notice or observe something stunning about nature—hills blanketed in wildflowers, the lull and might of ocean waves, the sun’s distorted light breaking through white, soft clouds, etc.—I will reflect on the meaning of my observation (or why nature has affected me so deeply, and why it has the power to do so) and never fully grasp the meaning, and then I will joyfully remember my experience with nature after the moment has long since passed. In essence, I guess the speaker and I both wonder what it all means because, like life, nature isn’t always so peaceful and soothing as “A host, of gold daffodils.” When it is, though, such awe and splendor brings a tear to my eye. That has to count for something, right?
I also appreciate this poem because it helps clarify why I love literature so much. Like the journey of reflection upon a moment in nature, we take journeys when we read and analyze great stories: we’re wandering along before we read a great novel or an amazing poem; maybe we’re a bit lost, or maybe we’re right on track; when we start to read something, we initially observe or experience the story for the first time during a first-reading; we reflect on the work of literature, and enjoy the quest to find meaning within it, whether we are successful in doing so or not; and then, “when on my couch I lie/In vacant or in pensive mood” I remember the joy that came from first experiencing the text, “And then my heart with pleasure fills” that such literature exists for my delight. So, whether I’m wandering through the woods or through a good literary work, I am happy to be on such a thoughtful journey; I can thank Wordsworth for bringing the process of such experiences to light.
Now I wonder: what type of journey fills you with delight? Please share!
