Sonett-Forum

Oxford

Lady of all our lives, we found thee fair
When all thy pastures glowed and throbbed with June,
And either bank with meadow-sweet was boon
As down thy Stream we drifted, free of care;
And yet a lovelier garment thou didst wear
When Autumn walked thy meads with misty shoon,
And carved thy grey with many a crimson rune,
And lit thy paths with gold and russet rare.

Here in the South under an iron sky
The red wind flames o'er barren hills and sere,
Yet swift the muffled oars of memory ply
The restless passage of the years, and lo!
Once more across the golden flats appear
The dreaming spires, lit with the sunset's glow.