Green banks and gliding river!
What air from what far place
Comes down your waters' face
And makes your willows shiver?
Over me stole a spell,
A breath upon my brow;
Light on my spirit fell,
I knew not whence nor how.
Faded into a dream
Are Oxford's spires and towers;
Far down the winding stream,
Beyond the fields and flowers.
Is it that Nature here,
Finding me thus alone,
Would whisper in my ear
Some secret of her own?
Would win her child again
To these beloved retreats,
Shunned now too long for men,
For throngs and busy streets?
I know not. Round the bend
The sound of oars comes fast:
My moment's spell is past;
I hear the voice of a friend.
