Five years have past; five summers, with the length  |  | 
| Of five long winters! and again I hear |  | 
| These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs |  | 
| With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again |  | 
| Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, |  | 
| Which on a wild secluded scene impress |  | 
| Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect |  | 
| The landscape with the quiet of the sky. |  | 
| The day is come when I again repose |  | 
| Here, under this dark sycamore, and view  | 10 | 
| These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, |  | 
| Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, |  | 
| Among the woods and copses lose themselves, |  | 
| Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb |  | 
| The wild green landscape. Once again I see |  | 
| These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines |  | 
| Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms, |  | 
| Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke |  | 
| Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, |  | 
| With some uncertain notice, as might seem,  | 20 | 
| Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, |  | 
| Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire |  | 
| The hermit sits alone.  |  | 
|                                      Though absent long, |  | 
| These forms of beauty have not been to me, |  | 
| As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: |  | 
| But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din |  | 
| Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, |  | 
| In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, |  | 
| Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, |  | 
| And passing even into my purer mind  | 30 | 
| With tranquil restoration:—feelings too |  | 
| Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, |  | 
| As may have had no trivial influence |  | 
| On that best portion of a good man's life; |  | 
| His little, nameless, unremembered acts |  | 
| Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, |  | 
| To them I may have owed another gift, |  | 
| Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, |  | 
| In which the burthen of the mystery, |  | 
| In which the heavy and the weary weight  | 40 | 
| Of all this unintelligible world |  | 
| Is lighten'd:—that serene and blessed mood, |  | 
| In which the affections gently lead us on, |  | 
| Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, |  | 
| And even the motion of our human blood |  | 
| Almost suspended, we are laid asleep |  | 
| In body, and become a living soul: |  | 
| While with an eye made quiet by the power |  | 
| Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, |  | 
| We see into the life of things.  | 50 | 
|                                                 If this |  | 
| Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, |  | 
| In darkness, and amid the many shapes |  | 
| Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir |  | 
| Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, |  | 
| Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, |  | 
| How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee |  | 
| O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the wood |  | 
| How often has my spirit turned to thee!  |  | 
| And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd though[t,] |  | 
| With many recognitions dim and faint,  | 60 | 
| And somewhat of a sad perplexity, |  | 
| The picture of the mind revives again: |  | 
| While here I stand, not only with the sense |  | 
| Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts |  | 
| That in this moment there is life and food |  | 
| For future years. And so I dare to hope |  | 
| Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first |  | 
| I came among these hills; when like a roe |  | 
| I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides |  | 
| Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,  | 70 | 
| Wherever nature led; more like a man |  | 
| Flying from something that he dreads, than one |  | 
| Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then |  | 
| (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, |  | 
| And their glad animal movements all gone by,) |  | 
| To me was all in all.—I cannot paint |  | 
| What then I was. The sounding cataract |  | 
| Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, |  | 
| The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, |  | 
| Their colours and their forms, were then to me  | 80 | 
| An appetite: a feeling and a love, |  | 
| That had no need of a remoter charm, |  | 
| By thought supplied, or any interest |  | 
| Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past, |  | 
| And all its aching joys are now no more, |  | 
| And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this |  | 
| Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts |  | 
| Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, |  | 
| Abundant recompence. For I have learned |  | 
| To look on nature, not as in the hour  | 90 | 
| Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes |  | 
| The still, sad music of humanity, |  | 
| Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power |  | 
| To chasten and subdue. And I have felt |  | 
| A presence that disturbs me with the joy |  | 
| Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime |  | 
| Of something far more deeply interfused, |  | 
| Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, |  | 
| And the round ocean, and the living air, |  | 
| And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,  | 100 | 
| A motion and a spirit, that impels |  | 
| All thinking things, all objects of all thought, |  | 
| And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still |  | 
| A lover of the meadows and the woods, |  | 
| And mountains; and of all that we behold |  | 
| From this green earth; of all the mighty world |  | 
| Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,* |  | 
| And what perceive; well pleased to recognize |  | 
| In nature and the language of the sense, |  | 
| The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,  | 110 | 
| The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul |  | 
| Of all my moral being. |  | 
|                                      Nor, perchance, |  | 
| If I were not thus taught, should I the more |  | 
| Suffer my genial spirits to decay: |  | 
| For thou art with me, here, upon the banks |  | 
| Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, |  | 
| My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch |  | 
| The language of my former heart, and read |  | 
| My former pleasures in the shooting lights |  | 
| Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while  | 120 | 
| May I behold in thee what I was once, |  | 
| My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make, |  | 
| Knowing that Nature never did betray |  | 
| The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, |  | 
| Through all the years of this our life, to lead |  | 
| From joy to joy: for she can so inform |  | 
| The mind that is within us, so impress |  | 
| With quietness and beauty, and so feed |  | 
| With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, |  | 
| Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,  | 130 | 
| Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all |  | 
| The dreary intercourse of daily life, |  | 
| Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb |  | 
| Our chearful faith that all which we behold |  | 
| Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon |  | 
| Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; |  | 
| And let the misty mountain winds be free |  | 
| To blow against thee: and in after years, |  | 
| When these wild ecstasies shall be matured |  | 
| Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind  | 140 | 
| Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, |  | 
| Thy memory be as a dwelling-place |  | 
| For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then, |  | 
| If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, |  | 
| Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts |  | 
| Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, |  | 
| And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance, |  | 
| If I should be, where I no more can hear |  | 
| Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams |  | 
| Of past existence, wilt thou then forget  | 150 | 
| That on the banks of this delightful stream |  | 
| We stood together; and that I, so long |  | 
| A worshipper of Nature, hither came, |  | 
| Unwearied in that service: rather say |  | 
| With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal |  | 
| Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, |  | 
| That after many wanderings, many years |  | 
| Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, |  | 
| And this green pastoral landscape, were to me |  | 
| More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.  | 160 |