Among the books in my current Read pile is a book of English literature. (Yes. I have kept some of those behemoths, and yes, I mean to read them!) I'm just now working my way through Wordsworth. Last night, I came across this poem, and it sums up so well for me, not just what it means to be Pagan, but what it means to be a modern Pagan.
..."And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man..." This is what I feel every day, as I witness our disconnect from Nature and from one another. Though Wordsworth was, in fact, not a Pagan, I feel this poem captures really well how some of us experience our distancing, as a species, from our Green Mother.
Lines Written in Early Spring*
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 green 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?
*This poem is in the public domain.
Photo: "Small Worlds" (c) 2013 Jennifer L. Moore. Do not duplicate.