How is it, that of a sudden Wordsworth doesn't bore me? I read the 1805 Prelude, and feel at home somehow. It makes no sense that I, as much an Urban Man as any you will meet, could once again as in my youth imagine happily being at liberty in what we call the country. 

     But of course it is the mind to which Wordsworth appeals, first, last, and always, the mind with its seemingly infinite capacity for perception and mastery. How much of this Kantian myth is the deliverance of study, and how much is just the inheritance of his age, remains unclear to me.