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 Bablock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, As the slow punt swings round: And leaning backwards 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: 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, Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, Or cross a stile into the public way.

Oft thou hast given them store Of flowers--the frail-leaf'd, white anemone-- Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, And purple orchises with spotted leaves-- But none has words she can report of thee. 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 abandon'd 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.