WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
"Tintern Abbey"
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 recompence. 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!(1)
Summary
(2)The
full title of this poem is "Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern
Abbey, on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798."
It opens with the speaker's declaration that five years have passed since he
last visited this location, encountered its tranquil, rustic scenery, and heard
the murmuring waters of the river. He recites the objects he sees again, and
describes their effect upon him: the "steep and lofty cliffs" impress
upon him "thoughts of more deep seclusion"; he leans against the dark
sycamore tree and looks at the cottage-grounds and the orchard trees, whose
fruit is still unripe. He sees the "wreaths of smoke" rising up from
cottage chimneys between the trees, and imagines that they might rise from
"vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods," or from the cave of a
hermit in the deep forest.
The
speaker then describes how his memory of these "beauteous forms" has
worked upon him in his absence from them: when he was alone, or in crowded
towns and cities, they provided him with "sensations sweet, / Felt in the
blood, and felt along the heart." The memory of the woods and cottages
offered "tranquil restoration" to his mind, and even affected him
when he was not aware of the memory, influencing his deeds of kindness and
love. He further credits the memory of the scene with offering him access to
that mental and spiritual state in which the burden of the world is lightened,
in which he becomes a "living soul" with a view into "the life
of things." The speaker then says that his belief that the memory of the
woods has affected him so strongly may be "vain"--but if it is, he
has still turned to the memory often in times of "fretful stir."
Even in
the present moment, the memory of his past experiences in these surroundings
floats over his present view of them, and he feels bittersweet joy in reviving
them. He thinks happily, too, that his present experience will provide many
happy memories for future years. The speaker acknowledges that he is different
now from how he was in those long-ago times, when, as a boy, he "bounded
o'er the mountains" and through the streams. In those days, he says,
nature made up his whole world: waterfalls, mountains, and woods gave shape to
his passions, his appetites, and his love. That time is now past, he says, but
he does not mourn it, for though he cannot resume his old relationship with
nature, he has been amply compensated by a new set of more mature gifts; for
instance, he can now "look on nature, not as in the hour / Of thoughtless
youth; but hearing oftentimes / The still, sad music of humanity." And he
can now sense the presence of something far more subtle, powerful, and
fundamental in the light of the setting suns, the ocean, the air itself, and
even in the mind of man; this energy seems to him "a motion and a spirit
that impels / All thinking thoughts.... / And rolls through all things."
For that reason, he says, he still loves nature, still loves mountains and pastures
and woods, for they anchor his purest thoughts and guard the heart and soul of
his "moral being."
The
speaker says that even if he did not feel this way or understand these things,
he would still be in good spirits on this day, for he is in the company of his
"dear, dear (d) Sister," who is also his "dear, dear
Friend," and in whose voice and manner he observes his former self, and
beholds "what I was once." He offers a prayer to nature that he might
continue to do so for a little while, knowing, as he says, that "Nature
never did betray / The heart that loved her," but leads rather "from
joy to joy." Nature's power over the mind that seeks her out is such that
it renders that mind impervious to "evil tongues," "rash
judgments," and "the sneers of selfish men," instilling instead
a "cheerful faith" that the world is full of blessings. The speaker
then encourages the moon to shine upon his sister, and the wind to blow against
her, and he says to her that in later years, when she is sad or fearful, the memory
of this experience will help to heal her. And if he himself is dead, she can
remember the love with which he worshipped nature. In that case, too, she will
remember what the woods meant to the speaker, the way in which, after so many
years of absence, they became more dear to him--both for themselves and for the
fact that she is in them.
We know that Tintern Abbey is about
nature, time, mortality, memory, imagination, society, the city, humanity, and
God (to list a few of the more frequently mentioned possibilities).
Form
"Tintern
Abbey" is composed in blank verse, which is a name used to describe
unrhymed lines in iambic pentameter. Its style is therefore very fluid and
natural; it reads as easily as if it were a prose piece. But of course the
poetic structure is tightly constructed; Wordsworth's slight variations on the
stresses of iambic rhythms is remarkable. Lines such as "Here, under this
dark sycamore, and view" do not quite conform to the stress-patterns of the
meter, but fit into it loosely, helping Wordsworth approximate the sounds of
natural speech without grossly breaking his meter. Occasionally, divided lines
are used to indicate a kind of paragraph break, when the poet changes subjects
or shifts the focus of his discourse.
Commentary
The
subject of "Tintern Abbey" is memory--specifically, childhood
memories of communion with natural beauty. Both generally and specifically,
this subject is hugely important in Wordsworth's work, reappearing in poems as
late as the "Intimations of Immortality" ode. "Tintern
Abbey" is the young Wordsworth's first great statement of his principle
(great) theme: that the memory of pure communion with nature in childhood works
upon the mind even in adulthood, when access to that pure communion has been
lost, and that the maturity of mind present in adulthood offers compensation
for the loss of that communion--specifically, the ability to "look on
nature" and hear "human music"; that is, to see nature with an
eye toward its relationship to human life. In his youth, the poet says, he was
thoughtless in his unity with the woods and the river; now, five years since
his last viewing of the scene, he is no longer thoughtless, but acutely aware
of everything the scene has to offer him. Additionally, the presence of his
sister gives him a view of himself as he imagines himself to have been as a
youth. Happily, he knows that this current experience will provide both of them
with future memories, just as his past experience has provided him with the
memories that flicker across his present sight as he travels in the woods.
"Tintern
Abbey" is a monologue, imaginatively spoken by a single speaker to
himself, referencing the specific objects of its imaginary scene, and
occasionally addressing others--once the spirit of nature, occasionally the
speaker's sister. The language of the poem is striking for its simplicity and
forthrightness; the young poet is in no way concerned with ostentation. He is
instead concerned with speaking from the heart in a plainspoken manner. The
poem's imagery is largely confined to the natural world in which he moves,
though there are some castings-out for metaphors ranging from the nautical (the
memory is "the anchor" of the poet's "purest thought") to
the architectural (the mind is a "mansion" of memory).
The poem also has a subtle strain of religious
sentiment; though the actual form of the Abbey does not appear in the poem, the
idea of the abbey--of a place consecrated to the spirit--suffuses the scene, as
though the forest and the fields were themselves the speaker's abbey. This idea
is reinforced by the speaker's description of the power he feels in the setting
sun and in the mind of man, which consciously links the ideas of God, nature,
and the human mind--as they will be linked in Wordsworth's poetry for the rest
of his life, from "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free" to the
great summation of the Immortality Ode.
(3)Some biographical background helps clarify
the poem. Wordsworth had first seen Tintern Abbey, an old ruin, in 1793. At the
end of 1792 he had returned from France full of enthusiasm for the Revolution
but grew dejected when England went to war against France. His friend William
Culvert had asked Wordsworth to join him in a walking tour of southern England,
but the two separated at Salisbury Plain. Near Stonehenge, Wordsworth
experienced a mystical restoration of faith as he saw visions of the ancient
Britons. In a new mood of confidence and hope for the French republic,
Wordsworth walked on alone to the valley of the Wye River where for the first
time he saw Tintern Abbey.
When Wordsworth began to write the poem,
almost five years later, matters in France had deteriorated. In the meanwhile,
he had read Godwin's Political Justice and written poems such as "The
Cumberland Beggar" and "The Ruined Cottage" in sympathy with the
poor. He had made a home with his sister Dorthy near Alfoxden and had started
working with Coleridge. In June of 1798 William and his siter had just spent a
week with Coleridge at Stowey, preparing poems for the printer. Then the
Wordsworths took a "four-day ramble" to the Wye valley, where they
viewed the abbey from the same vantage point "Wordsworth had enjoyed five years
before. In the poem Wordsworth recalls the scene and his formerly enthusiastic
state of mind. He feels the poem arise spontaneously
as he and his sister leave the Wye and continue their tour.
(4)Apart from being a
beautiful and moving poem to read, Wordsworth’s Tintern Abbey links in with a
number of the key characteristics that he wrote about in his preface. Who
amongst us at some time during our lives has not stood and gazed at some marvel
or beauty of nature. This type of experience is for everyone not just a
privileged few. Wordsworth is writing of an ordinary event that he thought
worthy of recording. The poem is not difficult to read and although some words
would not now be common place the reader still easily comprehends the language.
His ability to describe the scene on which he is looking almost transports the
reader there, tying in with his idea that poetry should be creative enough to
influence people absent from the scene as if they were there. He almost laments
the loss of his youth since last gazing upon this scene and realises that as
adults we lose some of the innocent perceptions of childhood. His great love of
nature and its beauty shine through in this poem and he realises that even
though he now looks upon the scene with a more developed eye than previously,
the wonders and charm of nature have not been lost to him.