Once to the verge of yon steep barrier came

A roving school-boy; what the adventurer's age

Hath now escaped his memory – but the hour,

One of a golden summer holiday

He well remembers, though the year be gone –

Alone and devious from afar he came;

And, with a sudden influx overpowered

At sight of this seclusion, he forgot

His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been

As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said,

‘What happy fortune were it here to live!

And, if a thought of dying, if a thought

Of mortal separation, could intrude

With paradise before him, here to die!’

No Prophet was he, had not even a hope,

Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing thought,

A fancy in the heart of what might be

The lot of others, never could be his.

The station whence he looked was soft and green,

Not giddy yet aerial, with a depth

Of vale below, a height of hills above.

For rest of body perfect was the spot,

All that luxurious nature could desire;

But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze

And not feel motions there? He thought of clouds

That sail on winds: of breezes that delight

To play on water, or in endless chase

Pursue each other through the yielding plain

Of grass or corn, over and through and through,

In billow after billow, evermore

Disporting – nor unmindful was the boy

Of sunbeams, shadows, butterflies and birds;

Of fluttering sylphs and softly-gliding Fays,

Genii, and winged angels that are Lords

Without restraint of all which they behold.

The illusion strengthening as he gazed, he felt

That such unfettered liberty was his,

Such power and joy; but only for this end,

To flit from field to rock, from rock to field,

From shore to island, and from isle to shore,

From open ground to covert, from a bed

Of meadow-flowers into a tuft of wood;

From high to low, from low to high, yet still

Within the bound of this huge concave; here

Must be his home, this valley be his world.

Since that day forth the Place to him – to me

(For I who live to register the truth

Was the same young and happy Being) became

As beautiful to thought, as it had been

When present, to the bodily sense; a haunt

Of pure affections, shedding upon joy

A brighter joy; and through such damp and gloom

Of the gay mind, as oftimes splenetic youth

Makes for sorrow, darting beams of light

That no self-cherished sadness could withstand;

And now 'tis mine, perchance for life, dear Vale

Beloved Grasmere (let the wandering streams

Take up, the cloud-capt hills repeat, the Name)

One of thy lowly Dwellings is my Home.

And was the cost so great? and could it seem

An act of courage, and the thing itself

A conquest? who must bear the blame? Sage man

Thy prudence, thy experience, thy desires,

Thy apprehensions – blush thou for them all.

Yes the realities of life so cold,

So cowardly, so ready to betray,

So stinted in the measure of their grace

As we pronounce them, doing them much wrong,

Have been to me more bountiful than hope,

Less timid than desire – but that is past.

On Nature's invitation do I come,

By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead,

That made the calmest fairest spot of earth

With all its unappropriated good

My own; and not mine only, for with me

Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered,

Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,

A younger Orphan of a home extinct,

The only Daughter of my Parents dwells.

Ay, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir,

Pause upon that and let the breathing frame

No longer breathe, but all be satisfied.

– Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God

For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then

Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'er

Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind

Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts,

But either She whom now I have, who now

Divides with me this loved abode, was there,

Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned,

Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang.

The thought of her was like a flash of light,

Or an unseen companionship, a breath

Of fragrance independent of the Wind.

In all my goings, in the new and old

Of all my meditations, and in this

Favourite of all, in this the most of all.

– What being, therefore, since the birth of Man

Had ever more abundant cause to speak

Thanks, and if favours of the Heavenly Muse

Make him more thankful, then to call on Verse

To aid him and in song resound his joy?

The boon is absolute; surpassing grace

To me hath been vouchsafed; among the bowers

Of blissful Eden this was neither given

Nor could be given, possession of the good

Which had been sighed for, ancient thought fulfilled,

And dear Imagination realised,

Up to their highest measure, yea and more.

Embrace me then, ye Hills, and close me in;

Now in the clear and open day I feel

Your guardianship; I take it to my heart;

'Tis like the solemn shelter of the night.

But I would call thee beautiful, for mild,

And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art

Dear Valley, having in thy face a smile

Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased,

Pleased with thy crags and woody steeps, thy Lake,

Its one green island and its winding shores;

The multitude of little rocky hills,

Thy Church and cottages of mountain stone

Clustered like stars some few, but single most,

And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,

Or glancing at each other cheerful looks

Like separated stars with clouds between.

What want we? have we not perpetual streams,

Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields,

And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds,

And thickets full of songsters, and the voice

Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound

Heard now and then from morn to latest eve,

Admonishing the man who walks below

Of solitude and silence in the sky?

These have we, and a thousand nooks of earth

Have also these, but nowhere else is found,

Nowhere (or it is fancy?) can be found

The one sensation that is here; 'tis here,

Here as it found its way into my heart

In childhood, here as it abides by day,

By night, here only; or in chosen minds

That take it with them hence, where'er they go.

– ’Tis, but I cannot name it, 'tis the sense

Of majesty, and beauty, and repose,

A blended holiness of earth and sky,

Something that makes this individual spot,

This small abiding-place of many men,

A termination, and a last retreat,

A centre, come from wheresoe'er you will,

A whole without dependence or defect,

Made for itself, and happy in itself,

Perfect contentment, Unity entire.

Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak,

When hitherward we journeyed side by side

Through burst of sunshine and through flying showers;

Paced the long vales – how long they were – and yet

How fast that length of way was left behind,

Wensley's rich Vale, and Sedbergh's naked heights.

The frosty wind, as if to make amends

For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps,

And drove us onward like two ships at sea,

Or like two birds, companions in mid-air,

Parted and reunited by the blast.

Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced

In that stern countenance, for our souls thence drew

A feeling of their strength. The naked trees,

The icy brook, as on we passed, appeared

To question us. ‘Whence come ye, to what end?’

They seemed to say, ‘What would ye,’ said the shower,

‘Wild Wanderers, whither through my dark domain?’

The sunbeam said, ‘Be happy.’ When this vale

We entered, bright and solemn was the sky

That faced us with a passionate welcoming,

And led us to our threshold. Daylight failed

Insensibly, and round us gently fell

Composing darkness, with a quiet load

Of full contentment, in a little shed

Disturbed, uneasy in itself as seemed,

And wondering at its new inhabitants.

It loves us now, this Vale so beautiful

Begins to love us! by a sullen storm,

Two months unwearied of severest storm,

It put the temper of our minds to proof,

And found us faithful through the gloom, and heard

The poet mutter his prelusive songs

With cheerful heart, an unknown voice of joy

Among the silence of the woods and hills;

Silent to any gladsomeness of sound

With all their shepherds.