He hearkens not! light comer, he is gone!

What matters it? next year he will return,

And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days, With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern,

And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways,

And scent of hay new-mown. But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see;

See him come back, and cut a smoother reed,

-

And blow a strain the world at last shall heed, · For Time, not Corydon, hath conquered thee.

Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be,

Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour

In the old haunt, and find our treetopped hill!

Who, if not I, for questing here hath power?

I know the wood which hides the daffodil,

I know the Fyfield tree,

I know what white, what purple fritillaries

The grassy harvest of the riverfields,

Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields; And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries;