On an Old-Fashioned Water-Colour of Oxford

(Early Twentieth-Century Date)

Shines, billowing cold and gold from Cumnor Hurst,

    A winter sunset on wet cobbles, where

    By Canterbury Gate the fishtails flare.

Someone in Corpus reading for a first

Pulls down red blinds and flounders on, immers’d

    In Hegel, heedless of the yellow glare

    On porch and pinnacle and window square,

The brown stone crumbling where the skin has burst.

A late, last luncheon staggers out of Peck

    And hires a hansom : from half-flooded grass

      Returning athletes bark at what they see.

But we will mount the horse-tram’s upper deck

    And wave salute to Buols’, as we pass

      Bound for the Banbury Road in time for tea.