The beauty of the High is not in brilliance

Nor in a florid sculpturing of stone,

Nor radiant colours, brave design, smooth stones,

But the wide curve and placid flow,—and that

St. Mary's spire and seven twilight mists

Are hanging over Oxford towers to-night.

I am clothed with furtive light

Reflected from that pallid sun

When it sets, hardly bright,

Behind Merton tower, daylight done.

When the moon, silver-hued,

Through Cowley generated mist

Tears its way and glimmers nude

Above Magdalen tower, it keeps tryst

With that spirit of my soul

Which would glide through Oxford streets,

Still, unseen, without control,

With wide eyes scanning whom it meets.