What man has made of man

LISTEN. Our Lyceum speaker series at MTSU, on pandemic hold since 2019, resumes a week from Wednesday with a distinguished guest whose interest in the intersection of philosophy and literature I share. 

Richard Eldridge has written in particular of Wordsworth as philosopher. This morning's poem* illustrates the point. Since I've been drafted to ferry Richard from his hotel to the event and back, I look forward to discussing it with him.

I think, btw, we can promise a larger and more proximal audience than Vandy managed to muster when he spoke to them remotely last year.

* Lines Written in Early Spring
by William Wordsworth

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 sweet 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? WA

Old Wordsworth at some point probably surrendered to his lament, and stopped thinking of what humanity might yet make of itself. I'm not there yet. When you're tired of thinking about tomorrow, you're tired of life.