MATTHEW ARNOLD

And, above Godstow Bridge, 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 abandoned lasher pass,

Have often pass'd thee near Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown :

Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare,

Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air; But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone.

��At some lone homestead in the Cumnor 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

For cresses from the rills, Have known thee watching, 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.

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood,

Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edged way

Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of gray, Above the forest-ground call'd Thessaly

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 withered spray, And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall.

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