To Joanna

William Wordsworth

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
The time of early youth; and there you learned, 
From years of quiet industry, to love 
The living Beings by your own fireside, 
With such a strong devotion, that your heart 
Is slow to meet 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 be 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 asked, 
"How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! 
And when will she return to us?" he paused; 
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 chiselled out 
Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. 
--Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
Engendered between malice and true love, 
I was not loth to be so catechised, 
And this was my reply:--"As it befell, 
One summer morning we had walked abroad 
At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
--'Twas that delightful season when the broom, 
Full-flowered, 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 
That eastward looks, I there stopped short--and stood 
Tracing 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, imaged in the heart. 
--When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, 
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 
The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, 
Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed 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 answered 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 tossed it from his misty head. 
--Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, 
Who in the hey-day of astonishment 
Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 
A work accomplished by the brotherhood 
Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 
With dreams and visionary impulses 
To me alone imparted, 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, as if she wished 
To shelter from some object of her fear. 
--And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons 
Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 
And silent morning, I sat down, and there, 
In memory of affections old and true, 
I chiselled out in those rude characters 
Joanna's name deep in the living stone:-- 
And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, 
Have called the lovely rock, JOANNA'S ROCK."

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