Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/82

74 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.

Though absent long,

These forms of beauty 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 may have had no trivial influence

On that best portion of a good man's life,