LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY...
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
I came among these hills; when like a roe
The day is come when I again repose
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of sel?sh men,
LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS
With tranquil restoration:--feelings too
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when ?rst
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
May I behold in thee what I was once,
Wherever nature led; more like a man
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
And their glad animal movements all gone by,)
END.
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke
Of hwww.99lib.netolier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Of all this unintelligible world
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
To me was all in all.--I cannot paint
We stood together; and that I, so long
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
Unpro?table, and the fever of the world,
Tintern.
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
[4] The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above
Shall eer prevail against us, or disturb
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
I bounded oer the mountains, by the sides
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mo九九藏书od,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
That after many wanderings, many years
An appetite: a feeling and a love,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Five years have passed; ?ve summers, with the length
A motion and a spirit, that impels
And now, with gleams of half-extinguishd thought,
Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,[5]
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
In which the affections gently lead us on,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.
To look on nature, not as in the hour
With a sweet inland murmur.[4]--Once again
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
If I should be, where I no more can hear
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
Nor, with th九_九_藏_书_网eir green and simple hue, disturb
My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make,
Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect.
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
As may have had no trivial in?uence
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods,
Of all my moral being.
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
To blow against thee: and in after years,
The picture of the mind revives again:
With many recognitions dim and faint,
We see into the life of things.
For future years. And so I dare to hope
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee
Nor, perchance,
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
With lofty thoughts, that neither evi
九*九*藏*书*网l tongues,
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: other gifts
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
The still, sad music of humanity,
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
While with an eye made quiet by the power
And mountains; and of all that we behold
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Is lightend:--that serene and blessed mood,
Our chearful faith that all which we behold
As is a landscape to a blind mans eye:
Or of some hermits cave, where by his ?re
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
Though absent long,
The language of my former heart, and read
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks
The mind that is within us, so impress
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Of ?ve long winters! and again I hear
If this
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,
In body, and become a living soul:
While here I stand, not only with the sehttp://www.99lib.netnse
In which the heavy and the weary weight
To them I may have owed another gift,
And passing even into my purer mind
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
That had no need of a remoter charm,
In nature and the language of the sense,
On that best portion of a good mans life;
[5] This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of
And even the motion of our human blood
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, July 13, 1798.
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
The heart that loved her; tis her privilege,
By thought supplied, or any interest
That on the banks of this delightful stream
The hermit sits alone.
That in this moment there is life and food
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
And all its aching joys are now no more,