At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills,
  Where at her open door the housewife darns,
    Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate
  To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. 
    Children, who early range these slopes and late 105
      For cresses from the rills,
  Have known thee eying, all an April-day,
    The springing pastures and the feeding kine;
    And mark’d thee, when the stars come out and shine,
  Through the long dewy grass move slow away. 110

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood deg.—­ deg.111
  Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way
    Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see
  With scarlet patches tagg’d deg. and shreds of grey, deg.114
    Above the forest-ground called Thessaly deg.—­ deg.115
      The blackbird, picking food,
  Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;
    So often has he known thee past him stray
    Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither’d spray,
  And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. 120

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill
  Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
    Have I not pass’d thee on the wooden bridge,
  Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,
    Thy face tow’rd Hinksey deg. and its wintry ridge? deg.125
      And thou hast climb’d the hill,
  And gain’d the white brow of the Cumner range;
    Turn’d once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall
    The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall deg.—­ deg.129
  Then sought thy straw in some sequester’d grange. deg.130

But what—­I dream!  Two hundred years are flown
  Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
    And the grave Glanvil deg. did the tale inscribe deg.133
  That thou wert wander’d from the studious walls
    To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe; 135
      And thou from earth art gone
  Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—­
    Some country-nook, where o’er thy unknown grave
    Tall grasses and white-flowering nettles wave,
  Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree’s deg. shade. deg.140

—­No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours! 
  For what wears out the life of mortal men? 
    ’Tis that from change to change their being rolls
  ’Tis that repeated shocks, again, again,
    Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 145
      And numb the elastic powers. 
  Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, deg. deg.147
    And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit,
    To the just-pausing Genius deg. we remit deg.149
  Our worn-out life, and are—­what we have been. 150