William Wordsworth’s poem, ‘Surprised by joy’ has no title. The words quoted are part of the first line of his heartbreaking poem written after the death of Catherine, he and his wife Mary’s fourth child in June 1812.  Catherine was just under four years old. It is widely believed nowadays that Catherine had Down’s Syndrome. This condition wasn’t so well recognized at the beginning of the 19^th century and, for a long time, because the child was lame, it was believed that polio was to blame. One way or the other the Wordsworths loved their child without reservation. Mary conceded that though the child was no beauty, she was possessed of a sparklingly endearing and lovable  personality. Wordsworth referred to her as his ‘Chinese princess’ which seems to suggest the ‘Asian’ eye configuration which led  the medical profession to  describe the condition  as ‘Mongoloid’.

Whatever the truth of it, nothing gave Wordsworth more pleasure and joy than to have the child playing about under his feet as he worked, or to have her accompany him on his walks.

The poem opens with a joyful ‘…surprised by joy…’ Wordsworth turning excitedly to young Catherine to share his exhultation. For a split second the child is alive. Then the empty, sickening realisation that the child has been dead, ‘deep buried in the silent tomb…’ for days.

Addressing his dead daughter, the poet berates himself for forgetting, even for ‘… the least division of an hour…’ his ‘… most grievous loss…’ But, he says ‘…love, faithful love recalled thee to my mind…’ and that recall ‘…was the worst pang sorrow ever bore…’ because, he says, in this way he has had to lose her not once but twice.

Love, he reminds her, love of his own child and his desperate need to have her back with him caused his mind to recreate her, whole and alive, here beside him.

But the worst of it was, he tells her, ‘…when I stood forlorn, [at her bedside or her still open grave?] knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;…’

And that nothing, either ‘…present time…’ nor the years ahead, could restore Catherine’s ‘…heavenly face…’ to his sight.

There’s nothing more to say about this poem.  Any man, on the loss of a child, might wish  to express himself as well as  Wordsworth does here. Because we cannot, I for one thank Heaven we have somebody to say it for us.

I have found the foregoing difficult to write without sounding mawkish or sentimental. I am very lucky to have the best poets in the language to keep me on the straight and narrow  and it must always be remembered that, should ill-written or ill- considered ideas appear in these pages, the fault is always mine and never that of  the poet.