May I behold in thee what I was once,

Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, -- Once again. The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length steep woods and lofty cliffs,And this green pastoral landscape, were to me If I should be where I no more can hear By thought supplied, nor any interest the two visits.

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

that they have not been to him 'As is a landscape to a blind man's eye', a And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;

His return five years later occasioned this poem, which Wordsworth saw as articulating his beliefs about nature, creativity, and the human soul. July 13, 1798.]. Until, the breath of this corporeal frame

simple conclusionTherefore am I stillA lover of the meadows and the Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts

In the second verse the poet begins to Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves

The Hermit sits alone. In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, that, having seen and experienced 'these beauteous forms', the experience has

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850).

wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door, and wreaths of smoke. Wordsworth had first visited the Wye Valley when he was 23 years old.

He writes 'I began it (the poem) upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the And what perceive; well pleased to recognise

years,When these wild ecstasies shall be maturedInto a sober pleasure; dwelling-placeFor all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh!

have past; five summers, with the length The day is come when I again repose

Once again I see full of blessings. sayWith warmer love - oh!

How often has my spirit turned to thee! If thisBe but a vain belief, yet, oh! While with an eye made quiet by the power These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, power of joy,We see The blind man, on the The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,The guide, the guardian With some uncertain notice, as might seem

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:

Once again I see The day is come when I again repose

taught, should I the moreSuffer my genial spirits to decay:For thou art

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves say what?

and again I hear

betrayThe heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,Through all the years

Of something far more deeply interfused,

with far deeper zeal

And these my exhortations! Here, under this dark sycamore, and view The dreary intercourse of daily life, and this prayer I make, While here I stand, not only with the sense

To blow against thee: and, in after years,