“We become what we behold. We shape our tools, and thereafter our tools shape us.”
— Marshall McLuhan, 1911-1980.
Caravaggio, Narcissus, 1597-99.
William Wordsworth
Romanticism: Grassmere, English Lake District, Wordsworth's home was there.
William Wordsworth. 1770–1850
p. 536.
Ode
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
5
…..
O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
135
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
….
And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish'd one delight
195
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
200
….
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
205
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Three grave stones on Cop's Hill, 17th century cemetery, Boston.
