E. P. CHASE(MAGDALEN)
E. P. CHASE(MAGDALEN)
E. P. CHASE(MAGDALEN)
Thebeauty of the High is not in brillianceNor in a florid sculpturing of stone,Nor radiant colours, brave design, smooth stones,But the wide curve and placid flow,—and thatSt. Mary's spire and seven twilight mistsAre hanging over Oxford towers to-night.
Thebeauty of the High is not in brillianceNor in a florid sculpturing of stone,Nor radiant colours, brave design, smooth stones,But the wide curve and placid flow,—and thatSt. Mary's spire and seven twilight mistsAre hanging over Oxford towers to-night.
Thebeauty of the High is not in brillianceNor in a florid sculpturing of stone,Nor radiant colours, brave design, smooth stones,But the wide curve and placid flow,—and thatSt. Mary's spire and seven twilight mistsAre hanging over Oxford towers to-night.
Thebeauty 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 amclothed with furtive lightReflected from that pallid sunWhen it sets, hardly bright,Behind Merton tower, daylight done.When the moon, silver-hued,Through Cowley generated mistTears its way and glimmers nudeAbove Magdalen tower, it keeps trystWith that spirit of my soulWhich would glide through Oxford streets,Still, unseen, without control,With wide eyes scanning whom it meets.
I amclothed with furtive lightReflected from that pallid sunWhen it sets, hardly bright,Behind Merton tower, daylight done.When the moon, silver-hued,Through Cowley generated mistTears its way and glimmers nudeAbove Magdalen tower, it keeps trystWith that spirit of my soulWhich would glide through Oxford streets,Still, unseen, without control,With wide eyes scanning whom it meets.
I amclothed with furtive lightReflected from that pallid sunWhen it sets, hardly bright,Behind Merton tower, daylight done.
I amclothed 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 mistTears its way and glimmers nudeAbove Magdalen tower, it keeps tryst
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 soulWhich would glide through Oxford streets,Still, unseen, without control,With wide eyes scanning whom it meets.
With that spirit of my soul
Which would glide through Oxford streets,
Still, unseen, without control,
With wide eyes scanning whom it meets.