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Smithson's offer, and that she hoped her grandmother would be pleased with a match which everybody supposed to be extremely advantageous. She was going to Grasmere immediately after the Cowes week to see her dear grandmother, and to be assured of her approval.
Cissie Gardiner had a pansy picked from Wordsworth's garden at Grasmere, and a sprig of rosemary that she said came from the grave of Keats. Her aunt brought it to her from Rome, where he's buried. She pasted it on to a piece of paper, and wrote underneath: 'Here's rosemary, that's for remembrance. I pray you, love, remember. She said Keats was her favourite poet.
He, on his side, informed her that on his way to Scotland he had bethought himself that he had never seen the Lakes, that he had stopped at Whinborough, was bent on walking over the High Fell pass to Ullswater, and making his way thence to Ambleside, Grasmere, and Keswick. 'But you are much too late to-day to get to Ullswater? cried Rose incautiously. 'Certainly.
He reached the garden gate of Grasmere, lifted the latch, and entered. As he did so, a man, touching his hat, rushed beside, and advanced before him, the village postman.
He died in 1850 and was buried in Grasmere Churchyard. A Poet of Nature. Wordsworth is one of the world's most loving and thoughtful lyrical poets of Nature. For him she possessed a soul, a conscious existence, an ability to feel joy and love. In Lines written in Early Spring, he expresses this belief: "And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes."
The alternative forms may be Anglicised as Churn, and Churnwater, just like Grasmere, and Grasmere Lake. I wish I could avoid saying anything about Worcester, for it is an obscure and difficult subject; but I fear the attempt to shirk it would be useless in the long run.
They held different theories of poetic art, but their affection and esteem for one another never varied, from the early days when Scott and his young wife visited Wordsworth in his cottage at Grasmere, down to that sorrowful autumn evening when Wordsworth and his daughter went to Abbotsford to bid farewell to the wondrous potentate, then just about to start on his vain search for new life, followed by "the might of the whole earth's good wishes."
She saw Cicely hold out a limp hand, and the girl's timid, almost entreating eyes. But, the next moment, her attention was diverted to a figure slowly mounting the steep hill from Grasmere, on the top of which the cottage party were now standing, uncertain whether to push on for their walk, or to retreat homewards before the increasing rain. The person approaching was Bridget.
The river Leven, which flows out of Windermere, belongs to Lancashire; but the Rothay, or Raise-beck, which drains the valley of Grasmere, the streams which drain the valleys of Great and Little Langdale, and the Trout-beck, which all flow into Windermere, and may be regarded as the upper waters of the Leven, belong to Westmoreland.
Aren't they all as crystal as the depths of mountain tarns, or that amethystine colour of the sky behind the clear profiles of high peaks? I'm sorry we're too late for the Grasmere Sports; but the fact is we have lingered by the way longer than I planned for this trip; and now, as things are turning out I'm inclined to cut the end of the tour short.
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