Tintern Abbey by William Wordsworth

Updated: May 5, 2020




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.

Can recollecting your past be done improperly? Is it an infallible process? If it is not infallible, what should we do about it? These are some of the themes we will see in Tintern Abbey by Wordsworth.


This blog post is dedicated to an audio/visual exploration of this great poem. I hope that it will serve as a useful guide and resource to understanding and gaining insights from this poem of reflection.


Above I have included a video and audio podcast to help you gain insights from this poem. The audio podcast can be found on iTunes, Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts. The video can be found on Youtube or Facebook and it is embedded above.


For the Youtube video here are links to timestamped parts of the video:


Prefatory remarks about William Wordsworth and the Romantics (0-27 minutes)

Prefatory remarks about the poem Tintern Abbey. (27 minutes)

My reading of the poem Tintern Abbey (40 minutes)

Line by Line discussion of the poem (51 minutes)


Here is the poem in its entirety. Beneath the full poem I've included my breakdown of the poem that I used for the podcast episode. I recommend you read the poem on your own at least once before going through my notes.


Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798

By William Wordsworth


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,