In Oxford, evermore the same
Unto the uttermost verge of time,
Though grave-dust choke the sons of men,
And silence wait upon the rime,
At evening now the skies set forth
Last glories of the dying year:
The wind gives chase to relict leaves:
And we, we may not linger here.
A little while, and we are gone:
God knows if it be ours to see
Again the earliest hoar-frost white
On the long lawns of Trinity.
In Merton, of the many courts
And doorways good to wander through,
Gable and spire shall glitter white
Or tawny gold against the blue:
And still the winter sun shall smile
At noonday, or at sunset hour
On Magdalen, girt with ancient trees,
Beneath her bright immortal tower.
Though nevermore we tread the ways
That our returning feet have known
Past Oriel, and Christ Church gate
Unto those dearer walls, our own.
——
Oxford is evermore the same,
Unto the uttermost verge of time,
Though grave-dust choke the sons of men,
And silence wait upon the rime.