The poem opens with the poet visiting a place called Tintern Abbey on the banks of the River

Wye in southeast Wales.

He's visited it before, but not for five years. He remembers almost every detail: the sound of the "mountain-springs," "this
dark sycamore," and the "hedge-rows."
He looks back on the past five years that have gone by since his first visit to the place, and remembers how much the
memory of this scene meant to him when he was cooped up in the city. In fact, he practically relied on his memories of
the beauty of the place to keep him sane while he was living in "the din/ Of towns and cities" (25-6).
Now that he's finally back in the same spot again, he finds himself looking out at the landscape and experiencing an odd
combination of his present impressions, the memory of what he felt before, and the thought of how he'll look back on this
moment in the future. He imagines that he'll change as time goes by from what he was during his first visit: a kid with a
whole lot of energy to "boun[d] o'er the mountains" (68). Back in the day, nature meant everything to him.
Now, though, he's learned how to look at nature with a broader perspective on life. He doesn't just look and say, "Holy
cow, the view from up here is pretty awesome!" and then run "bound[ing] o'er the mountains" again. In other words, he
used to enjoy nature, but he didn't fully understand it. Now he looks and is able to sense a deeper, wider meaning to the
beauty in nature. He sees that everything in nature is interconnected.
It turns out Wordsworth's sister is with him during his present tour of the area, and he says that she still looks at nature in
the same way that he did when he was a kid. He imagines how his sister will go through the same development and
transformation that he did. One day she'll be able to look out at nature and imagine the interconnectedness of things, too.
Then he imagines her coming back to the same spot years in the future, after he's dead, and remembering the time she
came here with her brother.

Lines 1-2 FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters!
The speaker doesn't open with a description of the view or even an explanation of where he is, he starts by
telling us how much time has passed since he was last here (and we know from the title that "here" is "a Few
Miles above Tintern Abbey," on the "Banks of the Wye").
And boy does he tell us. He doesn't just say "five years have past," he really emphasizes that five years is a
super long time by adding up the seasons. Especially the "five long winters."
Lines 2-4 and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur. – Once again
But now he's there again! So, "once again," the speaker can hear and see all the beautiful stuff that he
remembers from his first visit.
This is where he starts to describe those impressions, and he starts with what he can hear: the sound of the
"mountain-springs."

Lines 5-8 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 speaker describes the "steep and lofty cliffs." They're just as he remembered, too.
He uses the word "again" in these lines, as well, possibly to reinforce the idea that he's been here before.
Those mountain cliffs "impress/ Thoughts" of "seclusion," or self-imposed solitude on the speaker.
"Impress" seems like a funny word choice. It's a more active verb than you'd expect for something inanimate,
like a cliff. It makes it seem as though the cliffs he's looking at have some kind of will or volition of their own. Or
maybe it just seems that way to the speaker.
Those cliffs reach from the landscape below and beyond them up to the sky, "connect[ing]" everything he's
looking at, so the cliffs help to create a sense of unity to the view he's admiring.

Lines 9-14 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.

The speaker "reposes," or relaxes in the shade under a "sycamore" (10) and lists all of the specific parts of the
view that he remembers from the last trip to the River Wye: the small gardens around the cottages and the
groups of fruit trees which, in the distance, look like "tufts" instead of individual trees. Because it's still early in
the summer, the fruit isn't ripe yet, so the fruit trees are all the same shade of green as the surrounding
clusters ("groves and copses") of wild trees.

Lines 14-18These 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!
"Once again," again. He sure wants to emphasize the fact that he's seen all this before.
The "hedge-rows," or planted rows of shrubbery, used to mark property lines or the edge of a field, look like
"little lines" (15) from his vantage point.
He also describes the hedge-rows as "sportive wood run wild" (16), which seems odd, given that hedges are
planted to keep things in order, so that the fields won't "run wild."
The speaker then points out all the farm houses he can see, and then the little "wreaths of smoke" appearing
here and there from the woods.
Hm, so it's not just a wild landscape. There are signs of human life here, too.
But no sounds of human life: the smoke goes up "in silence." Apparently the only sounds he can hear from his
vantage point come from the "mountain-springs" he describes in line 3.
The farms he describes are "pastoral," which is interesting because the word "pastoral" can refer either to
shepherds (so these are probably sheep farms), the countryside where shepherds are likely to live (like the
"Banks of the Wye"), or to poetry about shepherds.

Lines 19-22 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.
The "wreaths of smoke" from line 18 are a bit of a mystery. The speaker imagines that the smoke could come
from the fire of a "vagrant" or wandering person who's camping out in the "houseless woods."
Or maybe the smoke is coming from a cave where a "Hermit," or solitary religious person, has chosen to live.

Lines 22-24 These beauteous forms,

Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
This stanza goes into a kind of flashback, describing the way the speaker felt during the "five years" that had
passed.
Since his last visit, the memory of the "beauteous forms," or the awesome view he's just described, has been
so present to him that he could practically see it – not like the description of a "landscape to a blind man," who
wouldn't be able to imagine it fully.

Lines 25-30 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:
The speaker often felt comforted by his memory of those "beauteous forms" when he was "lonely" or cooped
up in the "din" (noise), of "towns and cities" (25-6).
When he was feeling totally fried by a long day in the big bad city, he felt the "beauteous forms" somewhere in
his "blood," and then in his "heart," before it finally went into his "purer mind" (don't ask us to explain how that
works anatomically).
But, however the "beauteous forms" got into his "blood," he found that the memory of this view along the Wye
could "restore" him to "tranquility," or calmness (30).
Lines 30-35 – 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.
Remembering the "beauteous forms" also brought up "feelings" of "unremembered pleasure," or pleasant
things that seemed insignificant at the time, but are actually really important.
It's the memory of having done nice things for people, even if each individual act of kindness was "little,
nameless, [or] unremembered" by the person (34).

Lines 35-37 Nor less, I trust,

To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime;
The speaker thinks that he "may have owed" even more to "them" (i.e., the "beauteous forms" that he
remembers from his trip to the Wye).
So, besides acting as a pick-me-up when the speaker was feeling totally run down from living in the city, the
memory of the "beauteous forms" gave him another "gift" that was even more "sublime," so lofty, grand, and
exalted as to be almost life-changingly spiritual.

Lines 37-41 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:
The "sublime" gift that the "beauteous forms" gave him was a "blessed mood" that made the weight of the
world seems lighter.
The sentence structure gets pretty difficult to follow, here: both the "burthen" (or burden) of the
"mystery" and the "heavy and weary weight/ Of all this unintelligible world" are being "lightened" by the
"blessed mood."
That's an awfully powerful mood, right there. Suddenly, just by recalling the "beauteous forms" of the
landscape from the banks of the Wye, all of the "unintelligible," incomprehensible, and "myster[ious]" aspects
of the "world" stop bothering him.
Lines (41-64 )– 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:

The speaker tells us more about the "blessed mood" created by recalling the "beauteous forms." He's
already in a state in which the "weary weight" of the "world" has been "lightened," and then his
"affections" take him a step further. It's not clear whether the "affections" that he's talking about (42)
describe his feeling for his friends and family or for nature in general, or some combination of both.
The next step is that the "affections lead" him to a place where his physical body (the "corporeal
frame") is almost irrelevant. Even his blood has almost stopped moving in his veins. So, the physical
body is now irrelevant, or "asleep" (45), so that only the "soul" (46) matters. This seems kind of like
the experience some people describe when they meditate. Only, the speaker is able to experience
that kind of meditative trance just from recalling the "beauteous forms" of nature. Notice how there's a
sudden switch in line 42 from the first person singular that he's been using up until now ("I", "me,"
"my," etc.) to the first person plural ("us", "we," "our", etc.). It's as though the speaker wants us (the
reader) to be included in the meditative trance he's describing.

Lines 47-49 While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
The "eye" is now "quiet," or, to put it another way, the speaker is no longer aware of his
immediate, physical surroundings because of his meditative, trance-like state.
Now that we're not distracted by our surroundings, we're able to "see into the life of things," or,
we're able to see things as they really are and figure out how everything is interconnected in ways
that we can't always put into words.
Lines 49-57 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,
sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

The speaker starts with the hypothetical worry that his whole theory (about how it's possible for the
memories of beautiful things to lead you to a state where you understand important truths about the
world) is totally bogus – a "vain belief." Looking to the last few lines of the stanza, the speaker says
that, even if it is bogus, who cares? Whether it is true or not, he still often ("oft") called out to the
"sylvan," or wooded, river Wye "in spirit." Back to the middle section: the speaker describes when, or
under what circumstances, he used to cry out to the river Wye "in spirit." It was when everything
seemed dark and "joyless," even in the "daylight," and when the "fretful stir," or anxious bustle, of the
world was really getting him down. So the speaker seems to be saying that it doesn't matter how
bogus the whole "we see into the life of things" idea really is. It worked for him when he was
depressed, and that's what matters.

Lines 58-61 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:

The flashback is over. The speaker is back to talking about his impressions in his present visit to the river Wye.
This is marked in the poem by the "And now" that opens the stanza.
The poet's memories of his first visit are being "revive[d]" by seeing everything again.
In the process, though, he's experiencing "somewhat of a sad perplexity." In other words, he's very
"perplex[ed]," or confused, about how his present impressions match up with his "dim and faint" recollections.
Even though it's frustratingly "perplex[ing]," he finally manages to "revive," or reconstruct, the "picture of the
mind," and remember his earlier impressions.
Lines 62-65 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.
The speaker looks out and takes in the view.
He's pleased for two reasons at the same time. First, because that view is pretty spectacular in the here and
now. Second, because he's already thinking about how, sometime in the future, he's going to look back on the
memory of his present experience with enjoyment.
Lines 65-67And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills;
The speaker "hope[s]" that he'll live to look back on this moment with pleasure.
Then he starts reflecting on how much he's changed since his first visit (five years before).

Lines 67-70 when like a roe

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led:
It's another flashback: the speaker is describing himself from five years ago.
(To avoid confusion, we refer to the speaker's past self as "William," and his present, speaking self as "the
speaker").
Back then, William leaped and "bounded" (68) all over the place like a "roe" (67), or deer – just going
"wherever nature led" (70)

Lines 70-72 more like a man

Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved.
The speaker says that William, with all the "bound[ing]" around, seemed to be running away from something,
rather than chasing something "he loved" (72). The thing "he loved" is probably nature, but it's not clear who or
what the speaker thinks William was running from.

Lines 72-75 For nature then

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.
Here's another of those sentences divided up by a long parenthetical comment. The speaker says nature
meant everything to William.
The parenthetical comment that breaks it up is somewhat ambiguous. The speaker says that the "coarser"
(73), less refined or sophisticated "pleasures" that William enjoyed as a boy, and his "glad animal movements"
(i.e., the innocent and unreflecting "bound[ing]" through the mountains) are all over. But it's unclear whether
the speaker is saying this about William, or about his present self. It could be a combination of both.
Lines 75-76 – I cannot paint
What then I was.
The speaker interrupts himself with a dash to claim that he can't describe his past self in words. This is kind of
ironic, given that that's exactly what he's doing, and what he's going to continue to do.
Lines 76-83The 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.
The speaker has just said that nature was everything to William, and he does mean everything. The "sounding
cataract" (76), or waterfall, took the place of his "passion," and the "colours and […] forms" (79) of the
"mountain" and the "wood" were his appetite.
Nature supplied his "feeling" and "love," too – and without the need for intellectual "thought," since nature had
enough "charm" and "interest" on its own.
So nature, it seems, took the place of all of William's physical and emotional desires. Interesting.
Lines 83-88 – 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.
The speaker can no longer experience the same "aching joys" (84) and "dizzy raptures" (85) that William
could; he can just remember them.
The speaker isn't going to sweat it, though. He might not experience the "aching joys," but he has "other gifts"
(86) now that "recompence" (88), or make up for it.

Lines 88-93For 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.
But all that is now past. The speaker has matured beyond William's unreflecting, un-intellectual, "thoughtless"
appreciation of nature. Now, when he looks at nature, he's able to hear "the still, sad music of humanity," which
seems to mean that he can sense some universal, timeless connection between nature and all of humanity.
Wait. The speaker is looking at nature, but looking allows him to hear? Weird. The speaker's senses are
getting all mixed up. This "still, sad music," we're told, isn't "harsh" or "grating." It must be kind of pleasant,
actually. The music is "power[ful]," though. It can "chasten and subdue" the speaker, or, in other words, it can
make him feel both humbled and calm.
Lines 93-99 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;
When he hears the "still, sad music of humanity," the speaker says that he feels some kind of
"presence" – of what, we're not sure. Nature with a capital "N"? God? Some indefinable force of
good? The "presence" (whatever it is) "disturbs" the speaker, but in a good way. The "presence"
makes the speaker lift his "thoughts" to higher things.
The "presence" also gives the speaker a sense that there's "something" like a divine presence that
exists "deeply interfused," or blended in with everything around it.
This "something" lives in "the light of setting suns" (97), in "the round ocean and the living air" (98), in
"the blue sky" (99), and even "in the mind of man" (99).
This "something" sounds an awful lot like the "Force" in Star Wars. It exists in everything in nature,
surrounding us, filling us, and binding the universe together. Only we're not sure that Wordsworth's
"something" has a dark side.
Lines 100-102 A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.
The speaker defines the "something" with a little more detail. It's "a motion and a spirit," that "impels,"
or animates, all things that think, and that "rolls through all things" (102).
He repeats the word "all" four times in two lines. He really wants to emphasize that this "spirit"
connects everything.

102-107 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;
This is why the speaker still considers himself a "lover" of nature. It's because he's figured out that the
"presence" (a.k.a. the "something" or the "motion" or the "spirit") connects everything.
So the speaker loves everything "that we behold/ From this green earth" (104-5), everything that you
can sense with "eye, and ear" (106).
"They," in line 106 refers back to the "eye and ear" from earlier in the line.
So the speaker is saying that he loves what his "eyes and ears" "half create" (106) as well as "what
[they] perceive" (107).
This is odd. We usually think of our sensory perception of the world – our vision and hearing – as
giving us hard facts about the world around us. But here, the speaker suggests that our "eyes and
ears" somehow "half create" the things that we see and hear.

107-111 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.
The speaker is happy to see the "presence" (a.k.a. the "something" or the "spirit") "in nature and the language
of the sense" (in other words, in his own sense perceptions).
Only this time, the speaker comes up with yet more ways of referring to the "presence": he calls it "the anchor
of my purest thoughts, the nurse,/ The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul/ Of all my moral being" (109-
111). The speaker seems to find it difficult to describe the "presence" he feels in nature. Up to this point, he's
described it as: "a presence" (94), "something" (96), "a motion and a spirit" (100), "the anchor of my purest
thoughts" (109), "the nurse, the guide, the guardian of my heart" (109-110), and the "soul of all my moral
being" (111). Clearly, this "presence" is very important to the speaker's spirituality if it's the "anchor" that keeps
his "thoughts" pure, as well as the "guardian of [his] heart" and the "soul" of his "moral being."

111-113 Nor perchance,

If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

The final stanza opens with another gearshift. The speaker says that even if he weren't "thus taught"
– even if he hadn't learned about the "presence" in nature – he still wouldn't "suffer his genial spirits to
decay." In other words, he wouldn't allow his natural sympathy and kindness to go to waste.

114-121 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 here's the reason why he won't let his "genial spirits" go to waste. It's because "thou art" with him
on the banks of the river Wye. What? The speaker isn't alone? He's been wandering around the
banks of the river for how long, and without mentioning his companion? He calls her his "dearest
Friend" (115), his "dear, dear Friend" (116), and his "dear, dear Sister" (121). Wordsworth's sister was
named Dorothy. From these lines we can tell that he really likes her. He says that her "voice" (116)
reminds him of the way he used to feel ("the language of my former heart"), and her "wild eyes" (119)
remind him of his "former pleasures" (118). So the speaker seems to be saying that present-day
Dorothy reacts to nature in the same way that William did when he was here five years ago. He says
that he can see his past self (a.k.a. "William") in her.
121-134 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.
The speaker "pray[s]" that he can continue to see his former self in his sister.
Wait, who's he going to pray to? The "presence" (94)? Kind of, but he calls it by yet another name: "Nature"
with a capital "N" (122). This is one of the most famous lines of the poem: "Nature never did betray/ The heart
that loved her" (122-3). So, "Nature" will answer the speaker's prayer because he's a Nature-lover.
"Her privilege," in line 123, refers to "Nature's privilege." Nature will always "lead" (124) us "from joy to joy"
(125) through all our lives. Sounds good to us! Nature will make sure that we only have "lofty thoughts" (128),
and will keep our minds full of "quietness and beauty" (127). This is important, because there's plenty to
distract us from the "quietness and beauty." The speaker lists some of the possible distractions: "evil tongues"
(128), or mean gossipy people who talk smack; "rash judgment" (129), or people who misjudge you; the
"sneers of selfish men" (129), or the self-centered folks who look down on you; and "the dreary intercourse"
(131), or the boring, mind-numbing interactions of "daily life" (131). Phew. That's a lot of stuff "Nature" needs to
protect us from! But none of those bad things the speaker lists for us will get the better of us ("prevail against
us," line 132) or take away our "simple faith" that everything we see is "full of blessings" (134).
134-142 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;
The speaker is so confident that Nature will answer his "prayer" (from way back in line 121) that he
utters what sounds like a blessing or benediction on Dorothy: "let the moon/ Shine on thee in thy
solitary walk;/ And let the misty mountain-winds be free/ To blow against thee" (134-6).
The speaker wants Dorothy to experience nature the way that William experienced it five years ago.
He wants her to have the same "wild ecstasies" (138) that William did. That way, when Dorothy
"mature[s]" (138) the way he did, her "pleasure" in nature will become "sober" (139), too – just like the
speaker! Just as the "beauteous forms" (22) stayed alive in the speaker's memory after William's
boyish "bound[ing]" (68), so too will Dorothy's "mind" (139) become a "mansion for all lovely forms"
(140). In other words, Dorothy's memory will be like a huge scrapbook of this visit, just as the
speaker's memory was a scrapbook of his past visit five years ago.
142-146 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!
If all this happens – if Dorothy's mind gets turned into a scrapbook of her current impressions – then,
later on, "if solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief" (143) should bother her, she'll be able to look into the
scrapbook of her memory and have "healing thoughts" (144) that will make her feel better.
Specifically, the "thoughts" that will "heal" her will be her memories of how her brother, the speaker,
stood next to her with his "exhortations" (146), or encouragements. The speaker imagines that
Dorothy's memories of these "beauteous forms" (22) will work to soothe her in the future, just as his
memories of them soothed him in the past.
146-159 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!
The "gleams/ Of past existence" (148-9) that the speaker is seeing in Dorothy's "wild eyes" are his
recollections of the way William reacted to things, because Dorothy's present reactions are so similar
(like in lines 116-120).Now the speaker imagines a future after he has died, after he is "where [he] no
more can hear/ Thy voice" (147-8). This could just mean that he's imagining a future when they're not
together anymore, but it seems more dramatic to imagine that it's after he's dead and she's still alive.
He asks Dorothy if she'll forget having "stood together" (151) on the banks of the Wye after he's gone.
The question continues in line 151. He asks if she'll forget that her brother ("I," line 151), who has
loved Nature for "so long" (151), had come back "hither" (152) to the banks of the Wye with an even
deeper love of nature than he felt before. The speaker doesn't need an answer to his question; of
course she won't forget! He seems to forget that he had started out by phrasing it as a question. The
sentence beginning on line 155, "Nor wilt thou then forget" means "and you won't forget this either!"
She won't forget, he says, that after all of his "wanderings" and the "many years/ Of absence" (156-7),
the view from the banks of the Wye are even more precious to him than they were before – both for
its own sake (because it's pretty) and for her sake.