The Simplon Pass

Brook and road?
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,
And with them did we journey several hours
At a slow step. The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
And in the narrow rent, at every turn,
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—
Were all like workings of one mind, the features
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first and last, and midst, and without end.

—William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

Does nature have a language that we can understand? Does it have a message that we can hear? Or are the sights of ice and rock, the sounds of wind and rain, nothing more than gibberish?

In this poem by Wordsworth, he describes a journey through the Alps that he once made with his friend Robert Jones. Trekking from Switzerland into Italy, they wended their way through the Simplon Pass, huge peaks ringing the horizon. Nowadays, we can speed through in a car, but Wordsworth took his “slow” steps on a dirt track that dated back to the Middle Ages.

In this wilderness, everything seems unknown. There is a feeling of universal discovery—even the flowing “brook” and the trusty “road,” trodden into shape by centuries of pilgrims, soldiers, and merchants, are “fellow-travellers,” as if venturing into this “gloomy Pass” for the first time. This place cannot be tamed by humanity; it is forever under a veil of mystery. We share in all this excitement, for Wordsworth’s inclusive “we” brings us into the center of his experience.

As we walk with Wordsworth, what do we see? Infinities and paradoxes. The woods are “immeasurable,” stretching beyond the reach of our thought. They are “decaying,” indicating that we are in the fall, yet they are “never to be decayed,” for they must surely burst forth once more when spring arrives. The waterfalls appear to be “stationary,” which may be an illusion created by vast distance, where all details of the gushing water are lost. Or are they frozen?

Our sense of space expands and contracts. Although vast, the Pass is itself only a “narrow rent” in the gargantuan majesty of the Alps. Likewise, our mood can change in the blink of an eye. For a moment, there is nothing but violent conflict around us, as “winds” push against each other, baffling all progress and direction. But then, a glimpse of the “clear blue sky” brings clarity and repose. This atmosphere is, in turn, challenged by menacing “black drizzling crags.” They seem to speak, but what do their ancient voices say—to turn back or press on?

As we trek deeper and deeper into the Pass, the “gloomy” scene becomes more and more disturbing. It is “sick” and “giddy.” It pushes against all civilized confines, taking us to the borderline between inspiration and insanity. Here freedom reigns, in its most negative and positive manifestations. The “raving stream” suggests chaos. Yet the “unfettered clouds” bring us a feeling of liberation, lifting our eyes to the “heavens,” where there is nothing but joy.

In the final lines, Wordsworth makes a daring leap from the natural to the visionary. Summarizing what he has seen, and what he has shared with us, he asserts that the multiplicity of the landscape offers us a microcosm of existence. The “darkness and the light” are the “workings of one mind.” They evoke the tree in the Garden of Eden and the Apocalypse too—both the beginning and the end of time. In one moment, captured in the poem forever, we glimpse eternity.

William Wordsworth (1770–1850) was an English poet who helped to bring the Romantic Movement to English literature with the publication of "Lyrical Ballads," a collection of poetry by Wordsworth and fellow Romantic poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge.