This said, he left them, and return’d no more.—­
  But rumours hung about the country-side,
    That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,
  Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,
    In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, 55
      The same the gipsies wore. 
  Shepherds had met him on the Hurst deg. in spring; deg.57
    At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, deg. deg.58
    On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock’d boors
  Had found him seated at their entering. 60

But, ’mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. 
  And I myself seem half to know, thy looks,
    And put the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace;
  And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks
    I ask if thou hast pass’d their quiet place; 65
      Or in my boat I lie
  Moor’d to the cool bank in the summer-heats,
    ’Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills. 
    And watch the warm, green-muffled deg.  Cumner hills, deg.69
  And wonder if thou haunt’st their shy retreats. 70

For most, I know, thou lov’st retired ground! 
  Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe,
    Returning home on summer-nights, have met
  Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe, deg. deg.74
    Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, 75
      As the punt’s rope chops round;
  And leaning backward in a pensive dream,
    And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers
    Pluck’d in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers
  And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. 80

And then they land, and thou art seen no more!—­
  Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come;
    To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, deg. deg.83
  Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam
    Or cross a stile into the public way. 
      Oft thou hast given them store 85
  Of flowers—­the frail-leaf’d, white anemony,
    Dark bluebells drench’d with dews of summer eves
    And purple orchises with spotted leaves—­
  But none hath words she can report of thee. 90

And, above Godstow Bridge, deg. when hay-time’s here
  In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,
    Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass
  Where black-wing’d swallows haunt the glittering Thames,
    To bathe in the abandon’d lasher pass, deg. deg.95
      Have often pass’d thee near
  Sitting upon the river bank o’ergrown;
    Mark’d thine outlandish deg. garb, thy figure spare, deg.98
    Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air—­
  But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone! 100