Famous Prefaces.

The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

Preface to Lyrical Ballads

William Wordsworth (1800)

1
THE FIRST volume of these Poems has already been submitted to general perusal. It was
published, as an experiment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, how far,
by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of men in a state of
vivid sensation, that sort of pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted,
which a Poet may rationally endeavour to impart.
2
I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the probable effect of those Poems: I
flattered myself that they who should be pleased with them would read them with more
than common pleasure: and, on the other hand, I was well aware, that by those who
should dislike them, they would be read with more than common dislike. The result has
differed from my expectation in this only, that a greater number have been pleased than I
ventured to hope I should please.
3
Several of my Friends are anxious for the success of these Poems, from a belief, that, if
the views with which they were composed were indeed realized, a class of Poetry would
be produced, well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and not unimportant in the
quality, and in the multiplicity of its moral relations: and on this account they have
advised me to prefix a systematic defence of the theory upon which the Poems were
written. But I was unwilling to undertake the task, knowing that on this occasion the
Reader would look coldly upon my arguments, since I might be suspected of having been
principally influenced by the selfish and foolish hope of reasoning him into an
approbation of these particular Poems: and I was still more unwilling to undertake the
task, because, adequately to display the opinions, and fully to enforce the arguments,
would require a space wholly disproportionate to a preface. For, to treat the subject with
the clearness and coherence of which it is susceptible, it would be necessary to give a full
account of the present state of the public taste in this country, and to determine how far
this taste is healthy or depraved; which, again, could not be determined, without pointing
out in what manner language and the human mind act and re-act on each other, and
without retracing the revolutions, not of literature alone, but likewise of society itself. I
have therefore altogether declined to enter regularly upon this defence; yet I am sensible,
that there would be something like impropriety in abruptly obtruding upon the Public,
without a few words of introduction, Poems so materially different from those upon
which general approbation is at present bestowed.
4
It is supposed, that by the act of writing in verse an Author makes a formal engagement
that he will gratify certain known habits of association; that he not only thus apprises the
Reader that certain classes of ideas and expressions will be found in his book, but that
others will be carefully excluded. This exponent or symbol held forth by metrical
language must in different eras of literature have excited very different expectations: for
example, in the age of Catullus, Terence, and Lucretius, and that of Statius or Claudian;
and in our own country, in the age of Shakespeare and Beaumont and Fletcher, and that
of Donne and Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon me to determine the
exact import of the promise which, by the act of writing in verse, an Author in the
present day makes to his reader: but it will undoubtedly appear to many persons that I
have not fulfilled the terms of an engagement thus voluntarily contracted. They who have
been accustomed to the gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern writers, if they
persist in reading this book to its conclusion, will, no doubt, frequently have to struggle
with feelings of strangeness and awkwardness: they will look round for poetry, and will
be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts can be permitted to
assume that title. I hope therefore the reader will not censure me for attempting to state
what I have proposed to myself to perform; and also (as far as the limits of a preface will
permit) to explain some of the chief reasons which have determined me in the choice of
my purpose: that at least he may be spared any unpleasant feeling of disappointment, and
that I myself may be protected from one of the most dishonourable accusations which
can be brought against an Author, namely, that of an indolence which prevents him from
endeavouring to ascertain what is his duty, or, when his duty is ascertained, prevents him
from performing it.
5
The principal object, then, proposed in these Poems was to choose incidents and
situations from common life, and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was
possible in a selection of language really used by men, and, at the same time, to throw
over them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary things should be
presented to the mind in an unusual aspect; and, further, and above all, to make these
incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them, truly though not ostentatiously,
the primary laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which we
associate ideas in a state of excitement. Humble and rustic life was generally chosen,
because, in that condition, the essential passions of the heart find a better soil in which
they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and more
emphatic language; because in that condition of life our elementary feelings coexist in a
state of greater simplicity, and, consequently, may be more accurately contemplated, and
more forcibly communicated; because the manners of rural life germinate from those
elementary feelings, and, from the necessary character of rural occupations, are more
easily comprehended, and are more durable; and, lastly, because in that condition the
passions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms of nature. The
language, too, of these men has been adopted (purified indeed from what appear to be its
real defects, from all lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such men
hourly communicate with the best objects from which the best part of language is
originally derived; and because, from their rank in society and the sameness and narrow
circle of their intercourse, being less under the influence of social vanity, they convey
their feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly, such a
language, arising out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is a more permanent,
and a far more philosophical language, than that which is frequently substituted for it by
Poets, who think that they are conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in
proportion as they separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in
arbitrary and capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes,
and fickle appetites, of their own creation. 1
 6
I cannot, however, be insensible to the present outcry against the triviality and
meanness, both of thought and language, which some of my contemporaries have
occasionally introduced into their metrical compositions; and I acknowledge that this
defect, where it exists, is more dishonourable to the Writer’s own character than false
refinement or arbitrary innovation, though I should contend at the same time, that it is far
less pernicious in the sum of its consequences. From such verses the Poems in these
volumes will be found distinguished at least by one mark of difference, that each of them
has a worthy purpose. Not that I always began to write with a distinct purpose formerly
conceived; but habits of meditation have, I trust, so prompted and regulated my feelings,
that my descriptions of such objects as strongly excite those feelings, will be found to
carry along with them a purpose. If this opinion be erroneous, I can have little right to the
name of a Poet. For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings:
and though this be true, Poems to which any value can be attached were never produced
on any variety of subjects but by a man who, being possessed of more than usual organic
sensibility, had also thought long and deeply. For our continued influxes of feeling are
modified and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed the representatives of all our
past feelings; and, as by contemplating the relation of these general representatives to
each other, we discover what is really important to men, so, by the repetition and
continuance of this act, our feelings will be connected with important subjects, till at
length, if we be originally possessed of much sensibility, such habits of mind will be
produced, that, by obeying blindly and mechanically the impulses of those habits, we
shall describe objects, and utter sentiments, of such a nature, and in such connexion with
each other, that the understanding of the Reader must necessarily be in some degree
enlightened, and his affections strengthened and purified.
7
It has been said that each of these poems has a purpose. Another circumstance must be
mentioned which distinguishes these Poems from the popular Poetry of the day; it is this,
that the feeling therein developed gives importance to the action and situation, and not
the action and situation to the feeling.
8
A sense of false modesty shall not prevent me from asserting, that the Reader’s
attention is pointed to this mark of distinction, far less for the sake of these particular
Poems than from the general importance of the subject. The subject is indeed important!
For the human mind is capable of being excited without the application of gross and
violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who
does not know this, and who does not further know, that one being is elevated above
another, in proportion as he possesses this capability. It has therefore appeared to me,
that to endeavour to produce or enlarge this capability is one of the best services in
which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged; but this service, excellent at all times, is
especially so at the present day. For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are
now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and,
unfitting it for all voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The
most effective of these causes are the great national events which are daily taking place,
and the increasing accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity of their
occupations produces a craving for extraordinary incident, which the rapid
communication of intelligence hourly gratifies. to this tendency of life and manners the
literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country have conformed themselves. The
invaluable works of our elder writers, I had almost said the works of Shakespeare and
Milton, are driven into neglect by frantic novels, sickly and stupid German Tragedies,
and deluges of idle and extravagant stories in verse.—When I think upon this degrading
thirst after outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed to have spoken of the feeble
endeavour made in these volumes to counteract it; and, reflecting upon the magnitude of
the general evil, I should be oppressed with no dishonourable melancholy, had I not a
deep impression of certain inherent and indestructible qualities of the human mind, and
likewise of certain powers in the great and permanent objects that act upon it, which are
equally inherent and indestructible; and were there not added to this impression a belief,
that the time is approaching when the evil will be systematically opposed, by men of
greater powers, and with far more distinguished success.
9
Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim of these Poems, I shall request the
Reader’s permission to apprise him of a few circumstances relating to their style, in
order, among other reasons, that he may not censure me for not having performed what I
never attempted. The Reader will find that personifications of abstract ideas rarely occur
in these volumes; and are utterly rejected, as an ordinary device to elevate the style, and
raise it above prose. My purpose was to imitate, and, as far as possible, to adopt the very
language of men; and assuredly such personifications do not make any natural or regular
part of that language. They are, indeed, a figure of speech occasionally prompted by
passion, and I have made use of them as such; but have endeavoured utterly to reject
them as a mechanical device of style, or as a family language which Writers in metre
seem to lay claim to by prescription. I have wished to keep the Reader in the company of
flesh and blood, persuaded that by so doing I shall interest him. Others who pursue a
different track will interest him likewise; I do not interfere with their claim, but wish to
prefer a claim of my own. There will also be found in these volumes little of what is
usually called poetic diction; as much pains has been taken to avoid it as is ordinarily
taken to produce it; this has been done for the reason already alleged, to bring my
language near to the language of men; and further, because the pleasure which I have
proposed to myself to impart, is of a kind very different from that which is supposed by
many persons to be the proper object of poetry. Without being culpably particular, I do
not know how to give my Reader a more exact notion of the style in which it was my
wish and intention to write, than by informing him that I have at all times endeavoured to
look steadily at my subject; consequently, there is I hope in these Poems little falsehood
of description, and my ideas are expressed in language fitted to their respective
importance. Something must have been gained by this practice, as it is friendly to one
property of all good poetry, namely, good sense: but it has necessarily cut me off from a
large portion of phrases and figures of speech which from father to son have long been
regarded as the common inheritance of Poets. I have also thought it expedient to restrict
myself still further, having abstained from the use of many expressions, in themselves
proper and beautiful, but which have been foolishly repeated by bad Poets, till such
feelings of disgust are connected with them as it is scarcely possible by any art of
association to overpower.
10
If in a poem there should be found a series of lines, or even a single line, in which the
language, though naturally arranged, and according to the strict laws of metre, does not
differ from that of prose, there is a numerous class of critics, who, when they stumble
upon these prosaisms, as they call them, imagine that they have made a notable
discovery, and exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant of his own profession. Now
these men would establish a canon of criticism which the Reader will conclude he must
utterly reject, if he wishes to be pleased with these volumes. and it would be a most easy
task to prove to him, that not only the language of a large portion of every good poem,
even of the most elevated character, must necessarily, except with reference to the metre,
in no respect differ from that of good prose, but likewise that some of the most
interesting parts of the best poems will be found to be strictly the language of prose when
prose is well written. The truth of this assertion might be demonstrated by innumerable
passages from almost all the poetical writings, even of Milton himself. to illustrate the
subject in a general manner, I will here adduce a short composition of Gray, who was at
the head of those who, by their reasonings, have attempted to widen the space of
separation betwixt Prose and Metrical composition, and was more than any other man
curiously elaborate in the structure of his own poetic diction.
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas! for other notes repine;
A different object do these eyes require;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire;
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain.
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more because I weep in vain.
11
It will easily be perceived, that the only part of this Sonnet which is of any value is the
lines printed in Italics; it is equally obvious, that, except in the rhyme, and in the use of
the single word ’fruitless’ for fruitlessly, which is so far a defect, the language of these
lines does in no respect differ from that of prose.
12
By the foregoing quotation it has been shown that the language of Prose may yet be
well adapted to Poetry; and it was previously asserted, that a large portion of the
language of every good poem can in no respect differ from that of good Prose. We will
go further. It may be safely affirmed, that there neither is, nor can be, any essential
difference between the language of prose and metrical composition. We are fond of
tracing the resemblance between Poetry and Painting, and, accordingly, we call them
Sisters: but where shall we find bonds of connexion sufficiently strict to typify the
affinity betwixt metrical and prose composition? They both speak by and to the same
organs; the bodies in which both of them are clothed may be said to be of the same
substance, their affections are kindred, and almost identical, not necessarily differing
even in degree; Poetry 2 sheds no tears ’such as Angels weep,’ but natural and human
tears; she can boast of no celestial choir that distinguishes her vital juices from those of
prose; the same human blood circulates through the veins of them both.
13
If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical arrangement of themselves constitute a
distinction which overturns what has just been said on the strict affinity of metrical
language with that of prose, and paves the way for other artificial distinctions which the
mind voluntarily admits, I answer that the language of such Poetry as is here
recommended is, as far as is possible, a selection of the language really spoken by men;
that this selection, wherever it is made with true taste and feeling, will of itself form a
distinction far greater than would at first be imagined, and will entirely separate the
composition from the vulgarity and meanness of ordinary life; and, if metre be
superadded thereto, I believe that a dissimilitude will be produced altogether sufficient
for the gratification of a rational mind. What other distinction would we have? Whence is
it to come? and where is it to exist? Not, surely, where the Poet speaks through the
mouths of his characters: it cannot be necessary here, either for elevation of style, or any
of its supposed ornaments: for, if the Poet’s subject be judiciously chosen, it will
naturally, and upon fit occasion, lead him to passions the language of which, if selected
truly and judiciously, must necessarily be dignified and variegated, and alive with
metaphors and figures. I forbear to speak of an incongruity which would shock the
intelligent Reader, should the Poet interweave any foreign splendour of his own with that
which the passion naturally suggests: it is sufficient to say that such addition is
unnecessary. and, surely, it is more probable that those passages, which with propriety
abound with metaphors and figures, will have their due effect, if, upon other occasions
where the passions are of a milder character, the style also be subdued and temperate.
14
But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by the Poems now presented to the Reader
must depend entirely on just notions upon this subject, and, as it is in itself of high
importance to our taste and moral feelings, I cannot content myself with these detached
remarks. and if, in what I am about to say, it shall appear to some that my labour is
unnecessary, and that I am like a man fighting a battle without enemies, such persons
may be reminded, that, whatever be the language outwardly holden by men, a practical
faith in the opinions which I am wishing to establish is almost unknown. If my
conclusions are admitted, and carried as far as they must be carried if admitted at all, our
judgements concerning the works of the greatest Poets both ancient and modern will be
far different from what they are at present, both when we praise, and when we censure:
and our moral feelings influencing and influenced by these judgements will, I believe, be
corrected and purified.
15
Taking up the subject, then, upon general grounds, let me ask, what is meant by the
word Poet? What is a Poet? to whom does he address himself? and what language is to
be expected from him?—He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endowed with
more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of
human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among
mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than
other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions
and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled to
create them where he does not find them. to these qualities he has added a disposition to
be affected more than other men by absent things as if they were present; an ability of
conjuring up in himself passions, which are indeed far from being the same as those
produced by real events, yet (especially in those parts of the general sympathy which are
pleasing and delightful) do more nearly resemble the passions produced by real events,
than anything which, from the motions of their own minds merely, other men are
accustomed to feel in themselves:— whence, and from practice, he has acquired a greater
readiness and power in expressing what he thinks and feels, and especially those
thoughts and feelings which, by his own choice, or from the structure of his own mind,
arise in him without immediate external excitement.
16
But whatever portion of this faculty we may suppose even the greatest Poet to possess,
there cannot be a doubt that the language which it will suggest to him, must often, in
liveliness and truth, fall short of that which is uttered by men in real life, under the actual
pressure of those passions, certain shadows of which the Poet thus produces, or feels to
be produced, in himself.
17
However exalted a notion we would wish to cherish of the character of a Poet, it is
obvious, that while he describes and imitates passions, his employment is in some degree
mechanical, compared with the freedom and power of real and substantial action and
suffering. So that it will be the wish of the Poet to bring his feelings near to those of the
persons whose feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of time, perhaps, to let himself
slip into an entire delusion, and even confound and identify his own feelings with theirs;
modifying only the language which is thus suggested to him by a consideration that he
describes for a particular purpose, that of giving pleasure. Here, then, he will apply the
principle of selection which has been already insisted upon. He will depend upon this for
removing what would otherwise be painful or disgusting in the passion; he will feel that
there is no necessity to trick out or to elevate nature: and, the more industriously he
applies this principle, the deeper will be his faith that no words, which his fancy or
imagination can suggest, will be to be compared with those which are the emanations of
reality and truth.
18
But it may be said by those who do not object to the general spirit of these remarks,
that, as it is impossible for the Poet to produce upon all occasions language as exquisitely
fitted for the passion as that which the real passion itself suggests, it is proper that he
should consider himself as in the situation of a translator, who does not scruple to
substitute excellencies of another kind for those which are unattainable by him; and
endeavours occasionally to surpass his original, in order to make some amends for the
general inferiority to which he feels that he must submit. But this would be to encourage
idleness and unmanly despair. Further, it is the language of men who speak of what they
do not understand; who talk of Poetry as of a matter of amusement and idle pleasure;
who will converse with us as gravely about a taste for Poetry, as they express it, as if it
were a thing as indifferent as a taste for rope-dancing, or Frontiniac or Sherry. Aristotle, I
have been told, has said, that Poetry is the most philosophic of all writing: it is so: its
object is truth, not individual and local, but general, and operative; not standing upon
external testimony, but carried alive into the heart by passion; truth which is its own
testimony, which gives competence and confidence to the tribunal to which it appeals,
and receives them from the same tribunal. Poetry is the image of man and nature. The
obstacles which stand in the way of the fidelity of the Biographer and Historian, and of
their consequent utility, are incalculably greater than those which are to be encountered
by the Poet who comprehends the dignity of his art. The Poet writes under one restriction
only, namely, the necessity of giving immediate pleasure to a human Being possessed of
that information which may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a
mariner, an astronomer, or a natural philosopher, but as a Man. Except this one
restriction, there is no object standing between the Poet and the image of things; between
this, and the Biographer and Historian, there are a thousand.
19
Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleasure be considered as a degradation
of the Poet’s art. It is far otherwise. It is an acknowledgement of the beauty of the
universe, an acknowledgement the more sincere, because not formal, but indirect; it is a
task light and easy to him who looks at the world in the spirit of love: further, it is a
homage paid to the native and naked dignity of man, to the grand elementary principle of
pleasure, by which he knows, and feels, and lives, and moves. We have no sympathy but
what is propagated by pleasure: I would not be misunderstood; but wherever we
sympathize with pain, it will be found that the sympathy is produced and carried on by
subtle combinations with pleasure. We have no knowledge, that is, no general principles
drawn from the contemplation of particular facts, but what has been built up by pleasure,
and exists in us by pleasure alone. The Man of science, the Chemist and Mathematician,
whatever difficulties and disgusts they may have had to struggle with, know and feel this.
However painful may be the objects with which the Anatomist’s knowledge is
connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and where he has no pleasure he has
no knowledge. What then does the Poet? He considers man and the objects that surround
him as acting and re-acting upon each other, so as to produce an infinite complexity of
pain and pleasure; he considers man in his own nature and in his ordinary life as
contemplating this with a certain quantity of immediate knowledge, with certain
convictions, intuitions, and deductions, which from habit acquire the quality of
intuitions; he considers him as looking upon this complex scene of ideas and sensations,
and finding everywhere objects that immediately excite in him sympathies which, from
the necessities of his nature, are accompanied by an overbalance of enjoyment.
20
To this knowledge which all men carry about with them, and to these sympathies in
which, without any other discipline than that of our daily life, we are fitted to take
delight, the Poet principally directs his attention. He considers man and nature as
essentially adapted to each other, and the mind of man as naturally the mirror of the
fairest and most interesting properties of nature. and thus the Poet, prompted by this
feeling of pleasure, which accompanies him through the whole course of his studies,
converses with general nature, with affections akin to those, which, through labour and
length of time, the Man of science has raised up in himself, by conversing with those
particular parts of nature which are the objects of his studies. The knowledge both of the
Poet and the Man of science is pleasure; but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as a
necessary part of our existence, our natural and unalienable inheritance; the other is a
personal and individual acquisition, slow to come to us, and by no habitual and direct
sympathy connecting us with our fellow-beings. The Man of science seeks truth as a
remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude: the Poet,
singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth
as our visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all
knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science.
Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, ‘that he looks
before and after.’ He is the rock of defence for human nature; an upholder and preserver,
carrying everywhere with him relationship and love. In spite of difference of soil and
climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs: in spite of things silently gone
out of mind, and things violently destroyed; the Poet binds together by passion and
knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and
over all time. The objects of the Poet’s thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and
senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can
find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of
all knowledge—it is as immortal as the heart of man. If the labours of Men of science
should ever create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the
impressions which we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at
present; he will be ready to follow the steps of the Man of science, not only in those
general indirect effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation into the midst of the
objects of the science itself. The remotest discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or
Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the Poet’s art as any upon which it can be
employed, if the time should ever come when these things shall be familiar to us, and the
relations under which they are contemplated by the followers of these respective sciences
shall be manifestly and palpably material to us as enjoying and suffering beings. If the
time should ever come when what is now called science, thus familiarized to men, shall
be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine
spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and
genuine inmate of the household of man.—It is not, then, to be supposed that any one,
who holds that sublime notion of Poetry which I have attempted to convey, will break in
upon the sanctity and truth of his pictures by transitory and accidental ornaments, and
endeavour to excite admiration of himself by arts, the necessity of which must manifestly
depend upon the assumed meanness of his subject.
21
What has been thus far said applies to Poetry in general; but especially to those parts of
composition where the Poet speaks through the mouths of his characters; and upon this
point it appears to authorize the conclusion that there are few persons of good sense, who
would not allow that the dramatic parts of composition are defective, in proportion as
they deviate from the real language of nature, and are coloured by a diction of the Poet’s
own, either peculiar to him as an individual Poet or belonging simply to Poets in general;
to a body of men who, from the circumstance of their compositions being in metre, it is
expected will employ a particular language.
22
It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of composition that we look for this distinction of
language; but still it may be proper and necessary where the Poet speaks to us in his own
person and character. to this I answer by referring the Reader to the description before
given of a Poet. Among the qualities there enumerated as principally conducing to form a
Poet, is implied nothing differing in kind from other men, but only in degree. The sum of
what was said is, that the Poet is chiefly distinguished from other men by a greater
promptness to think and feel without immediate external excitement, and a greater power
in expressing such thoughts and feelings as are produced in him in that manner. But these
passions and thoughts and feelings are the general passions and thoughts and feelings of
men. and with what are they connected? Undoubtedly with our moral sentiments and
animal sensations, and with the causes which excite these; with the operations of the
elements, and the appearances of the visible universe; with storm and sunshine, with the
revolutions of the seasons, with cold and heat, with loss of friends and kindred, with
injuries and resentments, gratitude and hope, with fear and sorrow. These, and the like,
are the sensations and objects which the Poet describes, as they are the sensations of
other men, and the objects which interest them. The Poet thinks and feels in the spirit of
human passions. How, then, can his language differ in any material degree from that of
all other men who feel vividly and see clearly? It might be proved that it is impossible.
But supposing that this were not the case, the Poet might then be allowed to use a
peculiar language when expressing his feelings for his own gratification, or that of men
like himself. But Poets do not write for Poets alone, but for men. Unless therefore we are
advocates for that admiration which subsists upon ignorance, and that pleasure which
arises from hearing what we do not understand, the Poet must descend from this
supposed height; and, in order to excite rational sympathy, he must express himself as
other men express themselves. to this it may be added, that while he is only selecting
from the real language of men, or, which amounts to the same thing, composing
accurately in the spirit of such selection, he is treading upon safe ground, and we know
what we are to expect from him. Our feelings are the same with respect to metre; for, as
it may be proper to remind the Reader, the distinction of metre is regular and uniform,
and not, like that which is produced by what is usually called POETIC DICTION, arbitrary,
and subject to infinite caprices upon which no calculation whatever can be made. In the
one case, the Reader is utterly at the mercy of the Poet, respecting what imagery or
diction he may choose to connect with the passion; whereas, in the other, the metre obeys
certain laws, to which the Poet and Reader both willingly submit because they are
certain, and because no interference is made by them with the passion, but such as the
concurring testimony of ages has shown to heighten and improve the pleasure which co-
exists with it.
23
It will now be proper to answer an obvious question, namely, Why, professing these
opinions, have I written in verse? to this, in addition to such answer as is included in
what has been already said, I reply, in the first place, because however I may have
restricted myself, there is still left open to me what confessedly constitutes the most
valuable object of all writing, whether in prose or verse; the great and universal passions
of men, the most general and interesting of their occupations, and the entire world of
nature before me—to supply endless combinations of forms and imagery. Now,
supposing for a moment that whatever is interesting in these objects may be as vividly
described in prose, why should I be condemned for attempting to superadd to such
description the charm which, by the consent of all nations, is acknowledged to exist in
metrical language? to this, by such as are yet unconvinced, it may be answered that a
very small part of the pleasure given by Poetry depends upon the metre, and that it is
injudicious to write in metre, unless it be accompanied with the other artificial
distinctions of style with which metre is usually accompanied, and that, by such
deviation, more will be lost from the shock which will thereby be given to the Reader’s
associations than will be counterbalanced by any pleasure which he can derive from the
general power of numbers. In answer to those who still contend for the necessity of
accompanying metre with certain appropriate colours of style in order to the
accomplishment of its appropriate end, and who also, in my opinion, greatly underrate
the power of metre in itself, it might, perhaps, as far as relates to these Volumes, have
been almost sufficient to observe, that poems are extant, written upon more humble
subjects, and in a still more naked and simple style, which have continued to give
pleasure from generation to generation. Now, if nakedness and simplicity be a defect, the
fact here mentioned affords a strong presumption that poems somewhat less naked and
simple are capable of affording pleasure at the present day; and, what I wish chiefly to
attempt, at present, was to justify myself for having written under the impression of this
belief.
24
But various causes might be pointed out why, when the style is manly, and the subject
of some importance, words metrically arranged will long continue to impart such a
pleasure to mankind as he who proves the extent of that pleasure will be desirous to
impart. The end of Poetry is to produce excitement in co-existence with an overbalance
of pleasure; but, by the supposition, excitement is an unusual and irregular state of the
mind; ideas and feelings do not, in that state, succeed each other in accustomed order. If
the words, however, by which this excitement is produced be in themselves powerful, or
the images and feelings have an undue proportion of pain connected with them, there is
some danger that the excitement may be carried beyond its proper bounds. Now the co-
presence of something regular, something to which the mind has been accustomed in
various moods and in a less excited state, cannot but have great efficacy in tempering and
restraining the passion by an intertexture of ordinary feeling, and of feeling not strictly
and necessarily connected with the passion. This is unquestionably true; and hence,
though the opinion will at first appear paradoxical, from the tendency of metre to divest
language, in a certain degree, of its reality, and thus to throw a sort of half-consciousness
of unsubstantial existence over the whole composition, there can be little doubt but that
more pathetic situations and sentiments, that is, those which have a greater proportion of
pain connected with them, may be endured in metrical composition, especially in rhyme,
than in prose. The metre of the old ballads is very artless; yet they contain many passages
which would illustrate this opinion; and, I hope, if the following Poems be attentively
perused, similar instances will be found in them. This opinion may be further illustrated
by appealing to the Reader’s own experience of the reluctance with which he comes to
the reperusal of the distressful parts of Clarissa Harlowe, or The Gamester; while
Shakespeare’s writings, in the most pathetic scenes, never act upon us, as pathetic,
beyond the bounds of pleasure—an effect which, in a much greater degree than might at
first be imagined, is to be ascribed to small, but continual and regular impulses of
pleasurable surprise from the metrical arrangement.—On the other hand (what it must be
allowed will much more frequently happen) if the Poet’s words should be
incommensurate with the passion, and inadequate to raise the Reader to a height of
desirable excitement, then (unless the Poet’s choice of his metre has been grossly
injudicious), in the feelings of pleasure which the Reader has been accustomed to
connect with metre in general, and in the feeling, whether cheerful or melancholy, which
he has been accustomed to connect with that particular movement of metre, there will be
found something which will greatly contribute to impart passion to the words, and to
effect the complex end which the Poet proposes to himself.
25
If I had undertaken a SYSTEMATIC defence of the theory here maintained, it would have
been my duty to develop the various causes upon which the pleasure received from
metrical language depends. Among the chief of these causes is to be reckoned a principle
which must be well known to those who have made any of the Arts the object of accurate
reflection; namely, the pleasure which the mind derives from the perception of similitude
in dissimilitude. This principle is the great spring of the activity of our minds, and their
chief feeder. From this principle the direction of the sexual appetite, and all the passions
connected with it, take their origin: it is the life of our ordinary conversation; and upon
the accuracy with which similitude in dissimilitude, and dissimilitude in similitude are
perceived, depend our taste and our moral feelings. It would not be a useless employment
to apply this principle to the consideration of metre, and to show that metre is hence
enabled to afford much pleasure, and to point out in what manner that pleasure is
produced. But my limits will not permit me to enter upon this subject, and I must content
myself with a general summary.
26
I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its
origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a
species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that
which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself
actually exist in the mind. In this mood successful composition generally begins, and in a
mood similar to this it is carried on; but the emotion, of whatever kind, and in whatever
degree, from various causes, is qualified by various pleasures, so that in describing any
passions whatsoever, which are voluntarily described, the mind will, upon the whole, be
in a state of enjoyment. If Nature be thus cautious to preserve in a state of enjoyment a
being so employed, the Poet ought to profit by the lesson held forth to him, and ought
especially to take care, that, whatever passions he communicates to his Reader, those
passions, if his Reader’s mind be sound and vigorous, should always be accompanied
with an overbalance of pleasure. Now the music of harmonious metrical language, the
sense of difficulty overcome, and the blind association of pleasure which has been
previously received from works of rhyme or metre of the same or similar construction, an
indistinct perception perpetually renewed of language closely resembling that of real life,
and yet, in the circumstance of metre, differing from it so widely—all these
imperceptibly make up a complex feeling of delight, which is of the most important use
in tempering the painful feeling always found intermingled with powerful descriptions of
the deeper passions. This effect is always produced in pathetic and impassioned poetry;
while, in lighter compositions, the ease and gracefulness with which the Poet manages
his numbers are themselves confessedly a principal source of the gratification of the
Reader. All that it is necessary to say, however, upon this subject, may be effected by
affirming, what few persons will deny, that, of two descriptions, either of passions,
manners, or characters, each of them equally well executed, the one in prose and the
other in verse, the verse will be read a hundred times where the prose is read once.
27
Having thus explained a few of my reasons for writing in verse, and why I have chosen
subjects from common life, and endeavoured to bring my language near to the real
language of men, if I have been too minute in pleading my own cause, I have at the same
time been treating a subject of general interest; and for this reason a few words shall be
added with reference solely to these particular poems, and to some defects which will
probably be found in them. I am sensible that my associations must have sometimes been
particular instead of general, and that, consequently, giving to things a false importance, I
may have sometimes written upon unworthy subjects; but I am less apprehensive on this
account, than that my language may frequently have suffered from those arbitrary
connexions of feelings and ideas with particular words and phrases, from which no man
can altogether protect himself. Hence I have no doubt, that, in some instances, feelings,
even of the ludicrous, may be given to my Readers by expressions which appeared to me
tender and pathetic. Such faulty expressions, were I convinced they were faulty at
present, and that they must necessarily continue to be so, I would willingly take all
reasonable pains to correct. But it is dangerous to make these alterations on the simple
authority of a few individuals, or even of certain classes of men; for where the
understanding of an Author is not convinced, or his feelings altered, this cannot be done
without great injury to himself: for his own feelings are his stay and support; and, if he
set them aside in one instance, he may be induced to repeat this act till his mind shall lose
all confidence in itself, and become utterly debilitated. to this it may be added, that the
critic ought never to forget that he is himself exposed to the same errors as the Poet, and,
perhaps, in a much greater degree: for there can be no presumption in saying of most
readers, that it is not probable they will be so well acquainted with the various stages of
meaning through which words have passed, or with the fickleness or stability of the
relations of particular ideas to each other; and, above all, since they are so much less
interested in the subject, they may decide lightly and carelessly.
28
Long as the Reader has been detained, I hope he will permit me to caution him against a
mode of false criticism which has been applied to Poetry, in which the language closely
resembles that of life and nature. Such verses have been triumphed over in parodies, of
which Dr. Johnson’s stanza is a fair specimen:—
I put my hat upon my head
And walked into the Strand,
And there I met another man
Whose hat was in his hand.
29
Immediately under these lines let us place one of the most justly admired stanzas of the
‘Babes in the Wood.’
These pretty Babes with hand in hand
Went wandering up and down;
But never more they saw the Man
Approaching from the town.
In both these stanzas the words, and the order of the words, in no respect differ from the
most unimpassioned conversation. There are words in both, for example, ‘the Strand,’
and ‘the town,’ connected with none but the most familiar ideas; yet the one stanza we
admit as admirable, and the other as a fair example of the superlatively contemptible.
Whence arises this difference? Not from the metre, not from the language, not from the
order of the words; but the matter expressed in Dr. Johnson’s stanza is contemptible. The
proper method of treating trivial and simple verses, to which Dr. Johnson’s stanza would
be a fair parallelism, is not to say, this is a bad kind of poetry, or, this is not poetry; but,
this wants sense; it is neither interesting in itself nor can lead to anything interesting; the
images neither originate in that sane state of feeling which arises out of thought, nor can
excite thought or feeling in the Reader. This is the only sensible manner of dealing with
such verses. Why trouble yourself about the species till you have previously decided
upon the genus? Why take pains to prove that an ape is not a Newton, when it is self-
evident that he is not a man?
31
One request I must make of my reader, which is, that in judging these Poems he would
decide by his own feelings genuinely, and not by reflection upon what will probably be
the judgement of others. How common is it to hear a person say, I myself do not object
to this style of composition, or this or that expression, but, to such and such classes of
people it will appear mean or ludicrous! This mode of criticism, so destructive of all
sound unadulterated judgement, is almost universal: let the Reader then abide,
independently, by his own feelings, and, if he finds himself affected, let him not suffer
such conjectures to interfere with his pleasure.
32
If an Author, by any single composition, has impressed us with respect for his talents, it
is useful to consider this as affording a presumption, that on other occasions where we
have been displeased, he, nevertheless, may not have written ill or absurdly; and further,
to give him so much credit for this one composition as may induce us to review what has
displeased us, with more care than we should otherwise have bestowed upon it. This is
not only an act of justice, but, in our decisions upon poetry especially, may conduce, in a
high degree, to the improvement of our own taste; for an accurate taste in poetry, and in
all the other arts, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent, which can
only be produced by thought and a long continued intercourse with the best models of
composition. This is mentioned, not with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the most
inexperienced Reader from judging for himself (I have already said that I wish him to
judge for himself), but merely to temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest, that, if
Poetry be a subject on which much time has not been bestowed, the judgement may be
erroneous; and that, in many cases, it necessarily will be so.
33
Nothing would, I know, have so effectually contributed to further the end which I have
in view, as to have shown of what kind the pleasure is, and how that pleasure is
produced, which is confessedly produced by metrical composition essentially different
from that which I have here endeavoured to recommend: for the Reader will say that he
has been pleased by such composition; and what more can be done for him? The power
of any art is limited; and he will suspect, that, if it be proposed to furnish him with new
friends, that can be only upon condition of his abandoning his old friends. Besides, as I
have said, the Reader is himself conscious of the pleasure which he has received from
such composition, composition to which he has peculiarly attached the endearing name
of Poetry; and all men feel an habitual gratitude, and something of an honourable
bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them: we not only wish to be
pleased, but to be pleased in that particular way in which we have been accustomed to be
pleased. There is in these feelings enough to resist a host of arguments; and I should be
the less able to combat them successfully, as I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely
to enjoy the Poetry which I am recommending, it would be necessary to give up much of
what is ordinarily enjoyed. But, would my limits have permitted me to point out how this
pleasure is produced, many obstacles might have been removed, and the Reader assisted
in perceiving that the powers of language are not so limited as he may suppose; and that
it is possible for poetry to give other enjoyments, of a purer, more lasting, and more
exquisite nature. This part of the subject has not been altogether neglected, but it has not
been so much my present aim to prove, that the interest excited by some other kinds of
poetry is less vivid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, as to offer reasons
for presuming, that if my purpose were fulfilled, a species of poetry would be produced,
which is genuine poetry; in its nature well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and
likewise important in the multiplicity and quality of its moral relations.
34
From what has been said, and from a perusal of the Poems, the Reader will be able
clearly to perceive the object which I had in view: he will determine how far it has been
attained; and, what is a much more important question, whether it be worth attaining: and
upon the decision of these two questions will rest my claim to the approbation of the
Public.

Note 1. I here use the word ’Poetry’ (though against my own judgement) as opposed to the
word Prose, and synonymous with metrical composition. But much confusion has been
introduced into criticism by this contradistinction of Poetry and Prose, instead of the more
philosophical one of Poetry and Matter of Fact, or Science. The only strict antithesis to
Prose is Metre; nor is this, in truth, a strict antithesis, because lines and passages of metre
so naturally occur in writing prose, that it would be scarcely possible to avoid them, even
were it desirable. [back]
Note 2. As sensibility to harmony of numbers, and the power of producing it, are invariably
attendants upon the faculties above specified, nothing has been said upon those
requisites. [back]

Famous Prefaces.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

Appendix to Lyrical Ballads

William Wordsworth (1802)

1
PERHAPS, as I have no right to expect that attentive perusal, without which, confined, as I
have been, to the narrow limits of a preface, my meaning cannot be thoroughly
understood, I am anxious to give an exact notion of the sense in which the phrase poetic
diction has been used; and for this purpose, a few words shall here be added, concerning
the origin and characteristics of the phraseology, which I have condemned under that
name.
2
The earliest poets of all nations generally wrote from passion excited by real events; they
wrote naturally, and as men: feeling powerfully as they did, their language was daring,
and figurative. In succeeding times, Poets, and Men ambitious of the fame of Poets,
perceiving the influence of such language, and desirous of producing the same effect
without being animated by the same passion, set themselves to a mechanical adoption of
these figures of speech, and made use of them, sometimes with propriety, but much more
frequently applied them to feelings and thoughts with which they had no natural
connexion whatsoever. A language was thus insensibly produced, differing materially
from the real language of men in any situation. The Reader or Hearer of this distorted
language found himself in a perturbed and unusual state of mind: when affected by the
genuine language of passion he had been in a perturbed and unusual state of mind also: in
both cases he was willing that his common judgement and understanding should be laid
asleep, and he had no instinctive and infallible perception of the true to make him reject
the false; the one served as a passport for the other. The emotion was in both cases
delightful, and no wonder if he confounded the one with the other, and believed them both
to be produced by the same, or similar causes. Besides, the Poet spake to him in the
character of a man to be looked up to, a man of genius and authority. Thus, and from a
variety of other causes, this distorted language was received with admiration; and Poets, it
is probable, who had before contented themselves for the most part with misapplying only
expressions which at first had been dictated by real passion, carried the abuse still further,
and introduced phrases composed apparently in the spirit of the original figurative
language of passion, yet altogether of their own invention, and characterized by various
degrees of wanton deviation from good sense and nature.
3
It is indeed true, that the language of the earliest Poets was felt to differ materially from
ordinary language, because it was the language of extraordinary occasions; but it was
really spoken by men, language which the Poet himself had uttered when he had been
affected by the events which he described, or which he had heard uttered by those around
him. to this language it is probable that metre of some sort or other was early superadded.
This separated the genuine language of Poetry still further from common life, so that
whoever read or heard the poems of these earliest Poets felt himself moved in a way in
which he had not been accustomed to be moved in real life, and by causes manifestly
different from those which acted upon him in real life. This was the great temptation to all
the corruptions which have followed: under the protection of this feeling succeeding Poets
constructed a phraseology which had one thing, it is true, in common with the genuine
language of poetry, namely, that it was not heard in ordinary conversation; that it was
unusual. But the first Poets, as I have said, spake a language which, though unusual, was
still the language of men. This circumstance, however, was disregarded by their
successors; they found that they could please by easier means: they became proud of
modes of expression which they themselves had invented, and which were uttered only by
themselves. In process of time metre became a symbol or promise of this unusual
language, and whoever took upon him to write in metre, according as he possessed more
or less of true poetic genius, introduced less or more of this adulterated phraseology into
his compositions, and the true and the false were inseparately interwoven until, the taste
of men becoming gradually perverted, this language was received as a natural language:
and at length, by the influence of books upon men, did to a certain degree really become
so. Abuses of this kind were imported from one nation to another, and with the progress
of refinement this diction became daily more and more corrupt, thrusting out of sight the
plain humanities of nature by a motley masquerade of tricks, quaintnesses, hieroglyphics,
and enigmas.
 4
It would not be uninteresting to point out the causes of the pleasure given by this
extravagant and absurd diction. It depends upon a great variety of causes, but upon none,
perhaps, more than its influence in impressing a notion of the peculiarity and exaltation of
the Poet’s character, and in flattering the Reader’s self-love by bringing him nearer to a
sympathy with that character; an effect which is accomplished by unsettling ordinary
habits of thinking, and thus assisting the Reader to approach to that perturbed and dizzy
state of mind in which if he does not find himself, he imagines that he is balked of a
peculiar enjoyment which poetry can and ought to bestow.
5
The sonnet quoted from Gray, in the Preface, except the lines printed in italics, consists
of little else but this diction, though not of the worst kind; and indeed, if one may be
permitted to say so, it is far too common in the best writers both ancient and modern.
Perhaps in no way, by positive example could more easily be given a notion of what I
mean by the phrase poetic diction than by referring to a comparison between the metrical
paraphrase which we have of passages in the Old and New Testament, and those passages
as they exist in our common Translation. See Pope’s Messiah throughout; Prior’s ‘Did
sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue,’ &c. &c. ‘Though I speak with the tongues of
men and of angels,’ &c. &c., 1st Corinthians, ch. xiii. By way of immediate example take
the following of Dr. Johnson:
Turn on the prudent Ant thy heedless eyes,
Observe her labours, Sluggard, and be wise;
No stern command, no monitory voice,
Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice;
Yet, timely provident, she hastes away
To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day;
When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain,
She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain.
How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours,
Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy powers?
While artful shades thy downy couch enclose,
And soft solicitation courts repose,
Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight,
Year chases year with unremitted flight,
Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow,
Shall spring to seize thee, like an ambush’d foe.
6
From this hubbub of words pass to the original. ‘Go to the Ant, thou Sluggard, consider
her ways, and be wise: which having no guide, overseer, or ruler, provideth her meat in
the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest. How long wilt thou sleep, O Sluggard?
when wilt thou arise out of thy sleep? Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of
the hands to sleep. So shall thy poverty come as one that travelleth, and thy want as an
armed man.’ Proverbs, ch. vi.
7
One more quotation, and I have done. It is from Cowper’s Verses supposed to be written
by Alexander Selkirk:
 Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Ne’er sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a sabbath appeared.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
of a land I must visit no more.
My Friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
8
This passage is quoted as an instance of three different styles of composition. The first
four lines are poorly expressed; some Critics would call the language prosaic; the fact is,
it would be bad prose, so bad, that it is scarcely worse in metre. The epithet ‘church-
going’ applied to a bell, and that by so chaste a writer as Cowper, is an instance of the
strange abuses which Poets have introduced into their language, till they and their Readers
take them as matters of course, if they do not single them out expressly as objects of
admiration. The two lines ‘Ne’er sighed at the sound,’ &c., are, in my opinion, an instance
of the language of passion wrested from its proper use, and, from the mere circumstance
of the composition being in metre, applied upon an occasion that does not justify such
violent expressions; and I should condemn the passage, though perhaps few Readers will
agree with me, as vicious poetic diction. The last stanza is throughout admirably
expressed: it would be equally good whether in prose or verse, except that the Reader has
an exquisite pleasure in seeing such natural language so naturally connected with metre.
The beauty of this stanza tempts me to conclude with a principle which ought never to be
lost sight of, and which has been my chief guide in all I have said,—namely, that in works
of imagination and sentiment, for of these only have I been treating, in proportion as ideas
and feelings are valuable, whether the composition be in prose or in verse, they require
and exact one and the same language. Metre is but adventitious to composition, and the
phraseology for which that passport is necessary, even where it may be graceful at all,
will be little valued by the judicious.

Famous Prefaces.