Cherwell Stream

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.