Five years have passed; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain springs With a soft inland murmur.--Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 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, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 15 Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees With some uncertain notice, as might seem, Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 Or of some hermit’s cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms Through a long absence have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye: 25 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 have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man’s life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts 35 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessèd mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight 40 Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened:--that serene and blessèd mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,-- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood, 45 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 daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 55 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods,