I know these slopes: who knows them if not I? But many a dingle on the loved hillside, With thorns once studded, old white-blossomed trees, Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried High towered the spikes of purple orchises, Hath since our day put by The coronals of that forgotten time; Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy’s team, And only in the hidden brookside gleam Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. Where is the girl who by the boatman’s door, Above the locks, above the boating throng, Unmoored our skiff when through the Wytham flats, Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among, And darting swallows and light water-gnats, We tracked the shy Thames shore? Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass, Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?-- They all are gone, and thou art gone as well! Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. I see her veil draw soft across the day, I feel her slowly chilling breath invade The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with gray; I feel her finger light Laid pausefully upon life’s headlong train,-- The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, The heart less bounding at emotion new, And hope, once crushed, less quick to spring again. And long the way appears, which seemed so short To the less-practised eye of sanguine youth; And high the mountain tops, in cloudy air,-- The mountain tops where is the throne of Truth, Tops in life’s morning-sun so bright and bare! Unbreachable the fort Of the long-battered world uplifts its wall; And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, And near and real the charm of thy repose, And night as welcome as a friend would fall. But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss Of quiet! Look, adown the dusk hillside, A troop of Oxford hunters going home, As in old days, jovial and talking, ride! From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come. Quick! let me fly, and cross Into yon farther field! ’Tis done; and see, Backed by the sunset, which doth glorify The orange and pale violet evening-sky, Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree! I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil, The white fog creeps from bush to bush about, The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, And in the scattered farms the lights come out. I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night, Yet, happy omen, hail! Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep The morningless and unawakening sleep Under the flowery oleanders pale);