The Scholar-Gypsy (extract) by Matthew Arnold

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, The same the gipsies wore.
Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,
On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors Had found him seated at their entering,

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;
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 Cumner hills,
And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.

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.