Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountainsprings
With a soft inland murmur.-Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 That 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
These plots of cottage-ground, these
orchard-tufts,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 25
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,
With tranquil restoration:-feelings too 30
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or 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, 36
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed
mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened: 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 45
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.
If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft― 50 In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; 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, 55 O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extin
With many recognitions dim and faint,
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 A motion and a spirit, that impels
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 65
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,
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)
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
To me was all in all.-I cannot paint 75
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy If I were not thus taught, should I the
wood,
Their colors and their forms, were then to
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor 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 85
Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other
gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would
believe,
Abundant recompense.
The language of my former heart, and
read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once, 120
My dear, dear sister! and this prayer I
make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
For I have The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to
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
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh!
then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
"To-night will be a stormy night-
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon-
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"
At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
Should be thy portion, with what healing He plied his work; and Lucy took
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 145 And these my exhortations! Nor, per
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the town.
Of mute insensate things.
I heeded not their summons: happy time
"The floating clouds their state shall lend It was indeed for all of us—for me
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud
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