Ah, Truant, Thou Art Here Again, I See! For In A Season Of Such Wretched Weather I Thought That Thou Hadst Left Us Altogether, Although I Could Not Choose But Fancy Thee Skulking About The Hill-Tops, Whence The Glee Of Thy Blue Laughter Peeped At Times, Or Rather Thy Bashful Awkwardness, As Doubtful Whether Thou Shouldst Be Seen In Such A Company Of Ugly Runaways, Unshapely Heaps Of Ruffian Vapour, Broken From Restraint Of Their Slim Prison In The Ocean Deeps. But Yet I May Not Chide: Fall To Thy Books-- Fall To Immediately Without Complaint-- There They Are Lying, Hills And Vales And Brooks.