Explore "Lines Written a few Miles above Tintern Abbey, on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour" by William Wordsworth on Textopian.
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 sweet inland murmur. -- Once again / Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, / 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 / 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 / Among the woods and copses, nor disturb / The wild green landscape. 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.