Wordsworth

Poetry, Marianne Moore said, creates “…imaginary gardens with real toads in them…”

I’m a retired American teacher who spent my summer leisures nourishing a backyard garden sheltered behind a six foot fence. I’m sitting there now in the middle of a fall afternoon, no lessons to write, no papers to grade. My garden is a dense leafy place with sunny spots for clusters of day-lilies and roses, and shades for ferns and hostas. The fence keeps out my neighbors and their dogs but not their cats. Two bird feeders invite in a thousand birds and their song. Chipmunks, rabbits, and squirrels are also welcome. Raccoons are definitely not.

This account of my garden is very like Wordsworth’s letter - an account of the landscape and a measure of his place in Nature from the shelter of his house. The letter is as frank and commonplace as any passage from Thoreau’s writings. Thoreau pitied the man who lived in the world and had no time to pay attention to a wildflower. He found an economy and harmony in nature, two qualities reflected in both his prose and poetry. Wordsworth’s prose is proof that he knew to look out the window and frequently walk out the door.

Once he was out the door and in a poetical mood, however, things could get really weird. Icy brooks and naked trees started asking questions like “Whence come ye? To what end?” I’m more than just put off by the devise of using personification to describe the natural world. I become concerned that the writer is somehow completely out of touch with the reality of the planet, lost in his imagination, trapped in his words, unable to see the world and perhaps not to be trusted with preserving it. Wordsworth’s Nature poetry seems to be all about how Nature makes William feel and not at all about the natural world.

I’m new to studying Wordsworth, and I fear I have a long way to go toward understanding his importance. I’ve been put off by “a host of golden daffodils” and such nonsense for sixty years. Thoreau inspired my garden - a quiet place to just be in nature and partner with it. Wordsworth’s imaginary “Nature” is for me, just that - imaginary. Frankly, I wouldn’t fancy a walk with someone who hears the trees asking him questions. The tall cottonwood tree in my garden holds private conversations with the wind. They don’t need to talk to me; I’m happy just to listen in.