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AVE ATQUE VALE

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 seeAgain 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 hourOn Magdalen, girt with ancient trees, Beneath her bright immortal tower.

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