Lyrical Ballads, with other poems, by William Wordsworth

Poems on the Naming of Places,


By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents or renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence.


It was an April Morning: fresh and clear

The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,

Ran with a young man’s speed, and yet the voice

Of waters which the winter had supplied

Was soften’d down into a vernal tone.

The spirit of enjoyment and desire,

And hopes and wishes, from all living things

Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.

The budding groves appear’d as if in haste

To spur the steps of June; as if their shades

Of various green were hindrances that stood

Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile,

There was such deep contentment in the air

That every naked ash, and tardy tree

Yet leafless, seem’d as though the countenance

With which it look’d on this delightful day

Were native to the summer. — Up the brook

I roam’d in the confusion of my heart,

Alive to all things and forgetting all.

At length I to a sudden turning came

In this continuous glen, where down a rock

The stream, so ardent in its course before,

Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all

Which I till then had heard, appear’d the voice

Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,

The Shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush

Vied with this waterfall, and made a song

Which, while I listen’d, seem’d like the wild growth

Or like some natural produce of the air

That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here,

But ’twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch,

The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,

With hanging islands of resplendent furze:

And on a summit, distant a short space,

By any who should look beyond the dell,

A single mountain Cottage might be seen.

I gaz’d and gaz’d, and to myself I said,

“Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,

My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.”

— Soon did the spot become my other home,

My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.

And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,

To whom I sometimes in our idle talk

Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,

Years after we are gone and in our graves,

When they have cause to speak of this wild place,

May call it by the name of EMMA’S DELL.


To Joanna.

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass

Your time of early youth, and there you learn’d,

From years of quiet industry, to love

The living Beings by your own fire-side,

With such a strong devotion, that your heart

Is slow towards the sympathies of them

Who look upon the hills with tenderness,

And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.

Yet we who are transgressors in this kind,

Dwelling retired in our simplicity

Among the woods and fields, we love you well,

Joanna! and I guess, since you have been

So distant from us now for two long years,

That you will gladly listen to discourse

However trivial, if you thence are taught

That they, with whom you once were happy, talk

Familiarly of you and of old times.

While I was seated, now some ten days past,

Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop

Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower,

The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by

Came forth to greet me, and when he had ask’d,

“How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!

And when will she return to us?” he paus’d,

And after short exchange of village news,

He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,

Reviving obsolete Idolatry,

I like a Runic Priest, in characters

Of formidable size, had chisel’d out

Some uncouth name upon the native rock,

Above the Rotha, by the forest side.

— Now, by those dear immunities of heart

Engender’d betwixt malice and true love,

I was not both to be so catechiz’d,

And this was my reply. —“As it befel,

One summer morning we had walk’d abroad

At break of day, Joanna and myself.

—’Twas that delightful season, when the broom,

Full flower’d, and visible on every steep,

Along the copses runs in veins of gold.”

Our pathway led us on to Rotha’s banks,

And when we came in front of that tall rock

Which looks towards the East, I there stopp’d short,

And trac’d the lofty barrier with my eye

From base to summit; such delight I found

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,

That intermixture of delicious hues,

Along so vast a surface, all at once,

In one impression, by connecting force

Of their own beauty, imag’d in the heart.

— When I had gaz’d perhaps two minutes’ space,

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld

That ravishment of mine, and laugh’d aloud.

The rock, like something starting from a sleep,

Took up the Lady’s voice, and laugh’d again:

That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag

Was ready with her cavern; Hammar–Scar,

And the tall Steep of Silver–How sent forth

A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,

And Fairfield answer’d with a mountain tone:

Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky

Carried the Lady’s voice — old Skiddaw blew

His speaking trumpet; — back out of the clouds

Of Glaramara southward came the voice;

And Kirkstone toss’d it from his misty head.

Now whether, (said I to our cordial Friend

Who in the hey-day of astonishment

Smil’d in my face) this were in simple truth

A work accomplish’d by the brotherhood

Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch’d

With dreams and visionary impulses,

Is not for me to tell; but sure I am

That there was a loud uproar in the hills.

And, while we both were listening, to my side

The fair Joanna drew, is if she wish’d

To shelter from some object of her fear.

— And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons

Were wasted, as I chanc’d to walk alone

Beneath this rock, at sun-rise, on a calm

And silent morning, I sate down, and there,

In memory of affections old and true,

I chissel’d out in those rude characters

Joanna’s name upon the living stone.

And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side

Have call’d the lovely rock, Joanna’s Rock.


In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.

The Roths, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydole fells into Wyndermere. On Helm–Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cluster.


There is an Eminence — of these our hills

The last that parleys with the setting sun.

We can behold it from our Orchard seat.

And, when at evening we pursue our walk

Along the public way, this Cliff, so high

Above us, and so distant in its height,

Is visible, and often seems to send

Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.

The meteors make of it a favorite haunt:

The star of Jove, so beautiful and large

In the mid heav’ns, is never half so fair

As when he shines above it. ’Tis in truth

The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

And She who dwells with me, whom I have lov’d

With such communion, that no place on earth

Can ever be a solitude to me,

Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.


A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,

A rude and natural causeway, interpos’d

Between the water and a winding slope

Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore

Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.

And there, myself and two beloved Friends,

One calm September morning, ere the mist

Had altogether yielded to the sun,

Saunter’d on this retir’d and difficult way.

— Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we

Play’d with our time; and, as we stroll’d along,

It was our occupation to observe

Such objects as the waves had toss’d ashore,

Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither’d bough,

Each on the other heap’d along the line

Of the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood,

Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft

Of dandelion seed or thistle’s beard,

Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell’d

By some internal feeling, skimm’d along

Close to the surface of the lake that lay

Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on

Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there,

In all its sportive wanderings all the while

Making report of an invisible breeze

That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,

Its very playmate, and its moving soul.

— And often, trifling with a privilege

Alike indulg’d to all, we paus’d, one now,

And now the other, to point out, perchance

To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair

Either to be divided from the place

On which it grew, or to be left alone

To its own beauty. Many such there are,

Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plant

So stately, of the Queen Osmunda nam’d,

Plant lovelier in its own retir’d abode

On Grasmere’s beach, than Naid by the side

Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere

Sole-sitting by the shores of old Romance.

— So fared we that sweet morning: from the fields

Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth

Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.

Delighted much to listen to those sounds,

And in the fashion which I have describ’d,

Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc’d

Along the indented shore; when suddenly,

Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw

Before us on a point of jutting land

The tall and upright figure of a Man

Attir’d in peasant’s garb, who stood alone

Angling beside the margin of the lake.

That way we turn’d our steps: nor was it long,

Ere making ready comments on the sight

Which then we saw, with one and the same voice

We all cried out, that he must be indeed

An idle man, who thus could lose a day

Of the mid harvest, when the labourer’s hire

Is ample, and some little might be stor’d

Wherewith to chear him in the winter time.

Thus talking of that Peasant we approach’d

Close to the spot where with his rod and line

He stood alone; whereat he turn’d his head

To greet us — and we saw a man worn down

By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks

And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean

That for my single self I look’d at them,

Forgetful of the body they sustain’d. —

Too weak to labour in the harvest field,

The man was using his best skill to gain

A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake

That knew not of his wants. I will not say

What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how

The happy idleness of that sweet morn,

With all its lovely images, was chang’d

To serious musing and to self-reproach.

Nor did we fail to see within ourselves

What need there is to be reserv’d in speech,

And temper all our thoughts with charity.

— Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,

My Friend, Myself, and She who then receiv’d

The same admonishment, have call’d the plate

By a memorial name, uncouth indeed

As e’er by Mariner was giv’n to Bay

Or Foreland on a new-discover’d coast,

And, POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the Name it bears.


To M. H.

Our walk was far among the ancient trees:

There was no road, nor any wood-man’s path,

But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth

Of weed sapling, on the soft green turf

Beneath the branches of itself had made

A track which brought us to a slip of lawn,

And a small bed of water in the woods.

All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink

On its firm margin, even as from a well

Or some stone-bason which the Herdsman’s hand

Had shap’d for their refreshment, nor did sun

Or wind from any quarter ever come

But as a blessing to this calm recess,

This glade of water and this one green field.

The spot was made by Nature for herself:

The travellers know it not, and ’twill remain

Unknown to them; but it is beautiful,

And if a man should plant his cottage near.

Should sleep beneath the shelter of its tress,

And blend its waters with his daily meal,

He would so love it that in his death-hour

Its image would survive among his thoughts,

And, therefore, my sweet MARY, this still nook

With all its beeches we have named from You.

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 12:02