But what drew shepherd Richard from his downs,

And bred acquaintance of unused towns?

What put taught graces on his country lip,

And brought the sense of gentle fellowship

That many centres found in many hearts?

And the tinklings on the falls and swells

Gave the much music of our Oxford bells?

A Sylvester, come, Sylvester; you may trust

Your footing now to the much dreaded dust,

Crisp’d up and starchy from a short half-hour

Of standing to he blossom-hitting shower

That still makes counter-roundels in the pond.

A rainbow also shapes itself beyond

The shining slates and houses. Come and see.

You may quote Wordsworth, if you like, to me.

Sylvester came: they went by Cumnor Hill,

Met a new shower and saw the rainbow fill

From one frail horn that crumbled to the plain

His steady wheel quite to the full again.

They watched the brush of the swift stringy drops,

Help’d by the darkness of a block of copse

Close-rooted in the downward-hollowing fields;

Then sought such leafy shelter as it yields,

And each drew bluebells up, and for relief

Took primroses, their pull’d and plotted leaf

Being not forgotten, for primroses note

The blue with brighter places not remote.