Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey

by William Wordsworth

Written by William Wordsworth after a walking tour with his sister near the Welsh Borders, Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey describes his encounters with the countryside on the banks of the River Wye and grows into an outline of his general philosophy.

Genres: Poetry, Classics, School, Romanticism, 18th Century, Read For School, British Literature

24 pages, Leather Bound

First published January 1, 1798

About the author

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) was a major English romantic poet who, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped launch the Romantic Age in English literature with their 1798 joint publication, Lyrical Ballads.

Wordsworth's masterpiece is generally considered to be The Prelude, an autobiographical poem of his early years, which the poet revised and expanded a number of times. The work was posthumously titled and published, prior to which, it was generally known as the poem "to Coleridge". Wordsworth was England's Poet Laureate from 1843 until his death in 1850.

Reviews

[Flo · Rating 4 out of 5]

...
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved.
...
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us...

The description of a walking tour around the Welsh bank of the River Wye encompasses five years of introspection in a poet's life; the development of his character, the growing maturity of his verse, as he lets the moon shine on him in his solitary walk.

So, a simple walk, you say?


Jan 05, 20
* Maybe later on my blog.

[Norah Una Sumner · Rating 4 out of 5]

For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue.

Loved this.

[Kaethe · Rating 4 out of 5]

Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey - William Wordsworth   6 June, 1982
Read for AP English. I rather like Wordsworth, even though I'm not a huge poetry fan.
 
Norton Anthology of English Literature Volume II, which I have kept
***
31 March, 2017
Reread today because it came to my attention. Thirty-five years on, I'm not the same person who read it then. Now I have a daughter in her own senior year of high school. It seems an unbelievable length of time, and yet, hardly any. The math is accurate. But thirty-five years since I graduated high school? And here I am, full circle, worrying about Russia and nuclear war, and the Berlin Wall is now a piece of rubble in that part of the kitchen where strange things show up from time to time. Inconceivable.
I don't share Wordsworth's delight in the countryside in general, although I did find delight in standing outside just now, after the rain, looking for a rainbow. Still I think I get some of what he was trying to say. None of the people who were with me in that last year are near me now, although I suppose I could connect with them all on FaceBook, well, except my parents, who have both died. But I think I get the point he was making about being able to return to a place after whatever changes I've been through, and to feel again the same kinds of sensations. The place I return to isn't a scenic walk in the mountains at the Borders, it's a text, which is the only permanence I know.
There are only two kinds of poetry I care for, still: light verse which amuses and delights Old Possum's Book never gets old to me, nor The Jabberwocky, and poetry like this, that gets at the feelings. I suppose it is the same way I feel about music, that it is an easy and reliable way into a particular emotion.
None of this sheds any light on Wordsworth's poem, and my AP English teacher wouldn't have accepted a paper like this, but this is what reading is for me: a way to share emotions with other people across space and time, or even just with myself. An emotional time machine. I think he'd understand that.
 
Free copy from Project Gutenberg

[Hediyeh · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!"

[Aaranya Swaminathan · Rating 3 out of 5]

Simp.

EDIT: On hindsight, I was mistaken. Wordsworth 👑

[Arwaraheem · Rating 4 out of 5]

after reading this poem i am longing to visit the abbey

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,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—

[Hon Lady Selene · Rating 5 out of 5]

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

[Padmanabha Reddy · Rating 5 out of 5]

Only a few poems have the power to move a man like nothing other. With the Romantic poets, every person among them is a hidden gem and this poem by Wordsworth proves his poetic prowess. This poem was first published in the 1798 version of the Lyrical Ballads with his best friend Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Later in the second edition of the Lyrical Ballads, Wordsworth decides to include a preface to the poems and explain what actually they are. The romantic movement in English literary history is seen as one of the bravest and most radical movements in the literary canon as they tried to address fundamental ideas that Plato talked about in the Pre – Christian Greece. Wordsworth can be comfortably called the most important poet of this age. This poem Lines Composed a Few miles above Tintern Abbey puts forth some fundamental ideas in a language that can be understood by everyone.

The poem starts off by the descriptions of the natural landscape around the abandoned and dilapidated cathedral Tintern Abbey on the Welsh border. There is the river Wye flowing next to the Abbey and the place contains orchards and groves which tell us that the place is inhabited. Wordsworth moves from easy ideas to some of the most challenging ideas in the whole poem. The poem doesn’t do anything with the cathedral Tintern Abbey; he writes it as a poem which he tells as “recollection in tranquility.” The Abbey itself became very famous after the publishing of this poem. He takes the ideas of Plato in the Republic, especially what we refer to as “Theory of Forms.” Plato made a clear distinction between a materialistic idea of an object and a metaphysical idea of an object. For instance, Plato would say that beautiful body has nothing to do with the concept of beauty as the body can deteriorate with time but the beauty itself won’t fade away.

This poem provides him the sublime, the space for solitary reflections, to gather in an aesthetic impression that he can later collect in tranquility. This was the place which was far away from the jaws of industrial revolution that was taking place in England. It was the time when people started shifting to cities leading to an abandonment of traditional work and the standardization of time in the country. Wordsworth suggests that it is the little things that make a man great and the acknowledgement of unnoticed and insignificant help of kindness can take a man long way but humans have the tendency to forget things and overlook others’ kind deeds, a theme which he even talks in his other poem “The world is too much with us” where he tells that we have moved away from the things that are the most important in a human’s life for materialistic comforts.

By the end of the poem, after all the philosophical treatise which I don’t want to write everything here (If I do, this review will start looking like a research paper), we are introduced to this character whom we now know was listening all of the poem until now. It’s Dorothy, Wordsworth’s little sister in whom he sees the repository of the memory that he remembers as a child. It’s through her, he can recall all the memories of his childhood. In many ways, Dorothy is the like a reflection to Wordsworth who shows him his earlier self. Viewing the environment leads him to muse on his childhood impressions and on the nature, it’s tune and effect on identity. Then he projects these reflections back on to another person that is his sister.

Personally, I loved this poem and would suggest everyone to give it a read. I promise that it will open a new window in your mind to think about the philosophy that Wordsworth is talking about.

[Flo · Rating 4 out of 5]

When beauty just makes you sob.

[Komal · Rating 5 out of 5]

I am BIG fan of Wordsworth works. They are not only a pleasure to read, but have also influenced my thought-process and how I perceive things on many levels. This poem/ode is especially close to my heart because it has greatly impacted my philosophy of life and religious belief. Being a person, who loves "Nature" and "Romance", I think I understand every word Wordsworth writes as it synchronizes with my concepts on life, love, God, Nature and other themes he has discussed in his poems.

[Andrijana · Rating 5 out of 5]

nature never did betray
the heart that loved her

<3

[Lilly Jane · Rating 5 out of 5]

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, ATE if you know what I mean. Having experienced the abundantly beautiful landscape this earth has to offer and shared it with the ever favorite object of my heart (my sister), lines composed above Tintern Abbey just hits home. Simultaneous longing for and reflection on childhood? It’s here! Acknowledging the complicated relationship with who you were and where you were in the past and who you are now, knowing you’ll never be in that space and time again? Look no further! Wordsworth does it all (he doesn’t actually, but for the purposes of this review he does)

[mrsdarcy-carlsen · Rating 3 out of 5]

meh

[Yegane · Rating 3 out of 5]

Man, whyyyy would you write down so many to give us a small lesson? از شاي ياد بگير به مولا

[evie lane · Rating 2 out of 5]

william what are u even on abt

[mimi brown]

academic text

[Anamika Mohanta · Rating 4 out of 5]

"My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,

Knowing that Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her;"

[Anna · Rating 4 out of 5]

Very beautiful poem

[Mennah · Rating 3 out of 5]

Five years have past; 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,
That 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
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
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,
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:
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
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
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
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
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.

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,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue.—And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence—wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

[Genesis · Rating 1 out of 5]

This poem uses such epic-like language, and he's just describing a guy taking a walk! Also it is interesting how Tintern Abbey is his idea of an escape, when this place was known for its large population of homeless people. Why does he soften these historical realities?

It's pretty sad how he is in the present gathering up memories for the future, almost like he's only living in the moment to remember it afterwards. What an awful way to live in the present, to only live in it in order to reminisce on it later! It seems that he bottles these memories as a means to keep him going when he's back in the city and away from his idealized vision of the country side.

[Ashley Cruz · Rating 5 out of 5]

Favourite poem of all time hands down. <3

[Sarah · Rating 4 out of 5]

In particular with the piece it interested me with the landscapes affect on Wordsworth and his development as a person.

[Nishachar Prince · Rating 5 out of 5]

Nature always soothes us even if we don't realise it every time. The poet here delineates his own experiences through words with minute details.

[Alen · Rating 5 out of 5]

Superb...

[Ruby Scupp · Rating 5 out of 5]

I so clearly remember falling in love with this at thirteen.

Favorite Lines

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,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

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
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
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
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
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.

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,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again

And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.

Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations!

[Adriana Villanueva · Rating 5 out of 5]

William Wordsworth's "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey," commonly known as "Tintern Abbey," is more than just a poem; it's a profound meditation on the relationship between nature, memory, and the human experience. This work is a cornerstone of English Romanticism, and its exploration of these themes continues to resonate with us readers today.

At its heart, "Tintern Abbey" is a personal reflection on the Wordsworth's return to a place of natural beauty after a five-year absence. Wordsworth masterfully captures the serene beauty of the Wye Valley, painting a vivid picture of its "steep and lofty cliffs," its "pastoral farms," and the "wild secluded scene." But the poem transcends mere description, delving into his evolving relationship with this landscape.

In his youth, the Wordsworth's connection to nature was characterized by a more visceral, almost primal experience. Nature was "all in all," a source of unbridled joy and sensory pleasure. With the passage of time, however, this relationship has deepened and matured. He now finds in nature not only beauty but also a source of solace, spiritual sustenance, and profound philosophical insight. He hears "the still, sad music of humanity," suggesting a more nuanced understanding of the interconnectedness of nature and human life.

Memory plays a crucial role in the poem. The recollection of this natural landscape has served as a source of comfort and strength during difficult times. He recognizes that these memories have shaped his moral and spiritual development, allowing him to see into "the life of things."

The presence of the Wordsworth's sister adds another layer of emotional depth to the poem. In addressing her, he expresses a hope that she, too, will find solace and meaning in nature, and that their shared experience will create a lasting bond between them.

"Tintern Abbey" is written in blank verse, which lends a natural, conversational quality to the poem. This form allows Wordsworth to explore complex ideas and emotions without the constraints of rhyme, creating a sense of intimacy and immediacy.

"Tintern Abbey" is a powerful and enduring work that celebrates the transformative power of nature. It's a testament to Wordsworth's skill as a poet and his deep connection to the natural world, and it continues to offer us readers a profound exploration of what it means to be human in a world of natural beauty and constant change.

[Tiff Gibbo · Rating 4 out of 5]

I know this long-form poem is open to a lot of interpretation (a poem open to multiple interpretations?! what will they think of next?), but to me, it seems clear that it's about the simple solitude and easy, in-the-moment love for nature we have in our childhood and how, as a matter of growing up ("when all these wide ecstasies shall be matured into a sober pleasure"), we have to replace it for the work, worry and nuance of human company instead.

So like, quite classically a nature versus civilisation poem, imbued with pragmatic nostalgia and a healthy understanding that although culture may be high-falutin', it's nonetheless got its genesis in simple things that are universally pleasing on a primal level: a river running, a mountain rolling, and gravity propelling the young Wordsworth down it or through it. Nature can slough off you the niggling worries of social discourse ("evil tongues, rash judgments [...] sneers of selfish men") through its beauty, reminding the regarder of firstly, their mortality and, secondly, nature's timelessness. In this way, there is a simplicity in being; the Earth is benevolent, Edenic, with Wordsworth reminding us, "Nature never did betray the heart that loved her." Again, this stands against the complexities of humanity, where agendas often clash and ambages need interpreting, categorisation.

Another interesting aspect of this poem was the tenet of memory made physical. It reminds me of the idea you sometimes see touted around even today - the 'memory palace.' The way Wordsworth described it in 1798 struck me. He's reflecting on his own coming infirmity (and the fact the river will outlast him; his impermanence, Nature's impermanence) and how he will console himself with his memories of the pleasure he felt in the greenery, the water, the sun. "When they mind shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, thy memory be as dwelling-place."

Summarily, a really wonderful poem and worth it, even if you have trouble wading into older writing, too thick and fast with thesaurus-words to be easily digestible. I loved it!

[Isaac Chan · Rating 3 out of 5]

Great poem, and in these lines I got a glimpse into possibly 1 of the most introspective, internally vibrant minds in history – so, of course, not a mind that I’ve ever met in real life, for the better or worse. (I would hazard for the better, since minds like these more likely than not, prefer thinking and brooding over doing – so their company might not necessarily be beneficial. But who knows?)

However, aside from the literary and emotionally soothing benefits of this poem, I also wonder if this coping mechanism, so to speak, of Wordsworth’s, is psychologically beneficial. He returns to the same place 5 years after he wandered helplessly as an emotional, disillusioned wreck after returning from France and being separated from his lover and their child, to mope and also to jadedly reflect on what he saw as a dejected state of his country.

I generally respect and enjoy introspection in people, and tend to believe it a virtue, but I also can’t help but think that it is unhelpful to get trapped in your own head and not move on. That’s what I suspect might be happening in this poem – but of course, interpretations may vary. And maybe Wordsworth did move on after walking at Tintern Abbey 1 last time. He did marry someone else.

1 other interesting thing about Wordsworth’s musings at Tintern Abbey is that it is hard to disentangle the richness of his mind vs the richness of his prose. So, maybe he was just reflecting idly on his past experiences after all, but, due to the power of his pen, dressed up his thoughts up so sumptuously, that the possible calmness of his state of mind is no longer discernible. In any case, I wish I could think or write like him.

Nonetheless, Wordsworth does later offer some clues as to what he aims to capture in his poetry – he calls it ‘emotion recollected in tranquillity’. Which was, indeed, the vibe that I received. This poem was not bounded by iambus and thus felt very spontaneous, pleasing, and insightful.

[Yumeko (blushes) · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read a collection that apparently isn't available on Goodreads to rate. I wouldn't have rated the collection highly but through no fault of Wordsworth, the critical study was a little repetitive sometimes and honestly just glazed him. For English B.A here I think.
I am honestly so pleasantly surprised with his poetry, because I liked it and because of his perspectives. I realize social media culture has given poetry the same colors of individualism and perpetual consideration of yourself and your personal wounds that is present everywhere else on social media. It's good poetry the poetry that goes about if you have a feed like mine: Poe, Darwish, prose from popular novels, Arabic translations. But it's so self absorbed. Everything about love and melancholic reflections over and over and over again. While I read him, I was gladdest I had ever been to have had written at least one poem about something other than me or someone I loved. I had written about clouds.
I can very confidently say, as cheesy as he sometimes sounds, Wordsworth is a good poet. It is not when I was only reading him was my very much common opinion cemented, but when I felt that sincerely you would need such light in your eyes to write about the daffodils and moors as did he. Imagine this old fucking man choosing to write about a little river and how his love for it has changed and there's literally no more to it but that. Writers of his time can't help but slip in the occasional latin, pretense, and greek myth wannabe associations. Ugh. Lovely work. Infact I don't even think he's very quotable, his work mainly hits the spot when you've recited it out loud with all the needed enunciations (something I myself did for mostly the first time as much, and made my sister do).
It would be cool to write like him.

[Beth Bauman · Rating 5 out of 5]

Oh wow, I have always loved William Wordsworth, but this is a remarkably beautiful poem. I look forward to reading it many more times.

I do not have time to talk about everything that delights me here, but look at this use of enjambment that draws attention to the word "still" (lines 98-106)!

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore I am still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And the mountains; and all that we behold
From this green earth

Do you see how Wordsworth breaks the line, so it does not read "therefore I am still a lover of the meadows and the woods," but he creates this natural gap as our eyes jump to the next line, so it reads, "therefore I am still --- --[breath]-- --- a lover of the meadows and the woods." I love how enjambment like this creates a double meaning: obviously Wordsworth loves the meadows and the woods, but in this remembrance and love, he is still - he is present and quiet and still of movement. And when we set that line apart, it reads like this: "Therefore, because of all of this--the blue sky, the spirit [God?] that impels all things--therefore I am still and quiet." Isn't that beautiful!?!

There are also some really sweet lines describing the affection he has for his sister, Dorothy, who was there with him that day above the Abbey. The last section of the poem is written specifically addressing this dear sister of his, and it is lovely.