The leaves were fading when to Esthwaite’s banks
  And the simplicities of cottage life
  I bade farewell; and, one among the youth
  Who, summoned by that season, reunite
  As scattered birds troop to the fowler’s lure, 5
  Went back to Granta’s cloisters, [A] not so prompt
  Or eager, though as gay and undepressed
  In mind, as when I thence had taken flight
  A few short months before.  I turned my face
  Without repining from the coves and heights 10
  Clothed in the sunshine of the withering fern; [B]
  Quitted, not both, the mild magnificence
  Of calmer lakes and louder streams; and you,
  Frank-hearted maids of rocky Cumberland,
  You and your not unwelcome days of mirth, 15
  Relinquished, and your nights of revelry,
  And in my own unlovely cell sate down
  In lightsome mood—­such privilege has youth
  That cannot take long leave of pleasant thoughts. 
  The bonds of indolent society 20
  Relaxing in their hold, henceforth I lived
  More to myself.  Two winters may be passed
  Without a separate notice:  many books
  Were skimmed, devoured, or studiously perused,
  But with no settled plan. [C] I was detached 25
  Internally from academic cares;
  Yet independent study seemed a course
  Of hardy disobedience toward friends
  And kindred, proud rebellion and unkind. 
  This spurious virtue, rather let it bear 30
  A name it now deserves, this cowardice,
  Gave treacherous sanction to that over-love
  Of freedom which encouraged me to turn
  From regulations even of my own
  As from restraints and bonds.  Yet who can tell—­35
  Who knows what thus may have been gained, both then
  And at a later season, or preserved;
  What love of nature, what original strength
  Of contemplation, what intuitive truths,
  The deepest and the best, what keen research, 40
  Unbiassed, unbewildered, and unawed?

  The Poet’s soul was with me at that time;
  Sweet meditations, the still overflow
  Of present happiness, while future years
  Lacked not anticipations, tender dreams, 45
  No few of which have since been realised;
  And some remain, hopes for my future life. 
  Four years and thirty, told this very week, [D]
  Have I been now a sojourner on earth,
  By sorrow not unsmitten; yet for me 50
  Life’s morning radiance hath not left the hills,
  Her dew is on the flowers.  Those were the days
  Which also first emboldened me to trust
  With firmness, hitherto but lightly touched
  By such a daring thought, that I might leave 55
  Some monument behind me which pure hearts