This Shepherd having been, in youth and age, A tenant of the mountains, was a man Of a strong mind, and sensibility; Yet had he a soul, an intellect, And, though his habits were of the fields and hills, He had a heart, and felt the power of love. There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart. I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the old Man, and what he was Years after he had won the settled name Of "Michael, the good Shepherd." He was one Whom quiet, calm, and peaceful thoughts had blessed. He loved the sun, and the winds, and the waters; And the hills, and the trees, and the visible earth; But, most of all, the light of human love. He had a Wife; she was a comely dame, A peasant woman; she
William Wordsworth, the High Priest of Nature and the Poet of the Common Man, composed Michael in the early years of the 19th century (1800). It stands as one of the most poignant narratives in the Lyrical Ballads collection, embodying the Romantic ideal that the lives of humble, rural people are worthy of epic treatment. william wordsworth michael full text
Unlike the bombastic heroes of classical antiquity, Wordsworth’s hero is an elderly shepherd. The poem is a meditation on the sanctity of nature, the corruption of the city, and the agonizing grief of a broken promise. For students, scholars, and poetry lovers searching for the , this article provides the complete poem followed by a critical examination of its themes and historical context. William Wordsworth "Michael": Full Text If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude; Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnished with events, Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved;—not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think At random and imperfectly indeed On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone. This Shepherd having been, in youth and age,
Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of unusual strength: his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, He heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me!" And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains. He had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air; hills, which he vigorously had scaled; The tempting concave of a rock, or cave, Where he had sate, and viewed the rising sun; The sunny valley, and the cool retreat; The steady shower, the soft and silent rain, The winter's frost, the sun's enlivening ray— These had his spirit; and to these was linked A consciousness of what surrounding men Must suffer, though he gave no utterance. He loved the sun, and the winds, and