Lines Written in Early Spring
by William Wordsworth (Wordsworth, Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets)

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure: —
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

Imagine that you are not standing on a Tube train or a bus in the rush hour, squashed up against a total stranger who reads this newspaper over your shoulder not because he (or she) wants to, but because his (or her) chin is wedged under your right ear. Imagine yourself, instead, reclining in a grove of trees, observing the buds that are struggling to open for spring, hearing the birds and watching the feathery clouds pass overhead, barely wisps in a clear sky.

Because spring is almost upon us, and spring is synonymous with hope and new beginnings. I have plenty of those as I sit here in a little village partially surrounded by flood water.

Wordsworth (I always love his name for being so appropriate) is absorbing the sounds of nature in early spring. Relaxed and meditative, his thoughts travel from the birdsong he hears and the signals of spring that he observes, to our human condition. We are, after all, as much a product of nature as the birds and flowers, and thus he considers his thoughts to be sad ones, since the comparison between human behaviour and the joy of creatures in their natural habitat shows us to be lacking.

When Wordsworth talks of nature linking his human soul to her “fair works” he means that the spirit of nature runs through all living things and so connects us to each other and to our natural environment.

The tufts of primroses and the trails of periwinkle adorn the spot he occupies, and, responding to their enthusiastic existence, he states his belief that the flowers enjoy the very air they breathe; they are living their tiny flower lives to the full. The birds too (no carrion-eaters here, I think) are hopping and playing, and, while Wordsworth admits that he cannot read their tiny minds, he believes that they experience real pleasure in every little thing they do. He tells us that his beliefs might be “from heaven sent”, for in his mind that must be where nature herself originates. And, when his appreciation of his surroundings leads him to thoughts of “what man has made of man” by way of contrast, he asks us “Have I not reason to lament?”

Perhaps he has. Instances of human kindness and generosity coexist with selfish or wanton actions born of our baser instincts; but, as a result of free will, we often develop those less desirable qualities to a degree that would not naturally occur. What we make of ourselves in the name of progress is often lamentable. When we aspire to all that is crass and superficial and forget what really matters, our values become distorted and our judgment impaired.

Observations of nature at her most benevolent, when each living thing relishes life, serve only to illuminate our dismissal of the natural world to which we are connected. Yet awareness of that connection might otherwise promote a desirable sense of wellbeing.

We are often frenetic, and so preoccupied with those things we must do in a day just to get through it – to pay the mortgage, feed the kids and buy the new car – that we forget to enjoy simply being alive.

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