Five years have past; five summers, with the length
  Of five long winters![C] and again I hear
  These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
  With a soft [1] inland murmur. [D]—­Once again
  Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5
  That [2] 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. [3] 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! [E]
  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 [4]
  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, [5] 30
  With tranquil restoration:—­feelings too
  Of unremembered pleasure:  such, perhaps,
  As have no slight or trivial influence [6]
  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 blessed 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 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 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 thro’