Lines Written in Early Spring

Sad news- Rose Bridge has collapsed. I’ve ran across that bridge so many times, it formed part of a route that was a meditation for me and now it’s gone.

The weather has been awful, I’ve been away. Not much running to talk about, if any. 

We usually do the Serbergham Church run before an ultra, it’s a tradition. 8 miles all told, we talk about worries, fears, get to the church, I say a little prayer. We can still do that but it won’t be the same. Neither will the Cumbrian Way- it was impassable last time we tried, too much erosion, river too high. We like to personify nature, I was about to write that it is a ‘battle’ but it’s really not, it just is.

I was reading a little about Transcendentalism today, Emerson suggests an inherent goodness in man and nature- I like that idea. Wordsworth’s romanticism frames the natural world as though it is hanging in the living room of someone’s sheltered housing accommodation (that’s a hugely unfair generalisation but I’m making it anyway, what are you going to do about it?). The people looking at this picture (as they eat a custard cream on a chintzy sofa, in their sheltered housing) are flawed, they’re human. So why project this achingly broken stain of humanity onto nature?

I don’t know but I like it.

Lines Written in Early Spring


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?

William Wordsworth 

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