Pass slowly o’er them, ye days of October; ye soft misty mornings,
Long dusky eves; pass slowly; and thou, great Term-time of Oxford
Awful with lectures and books, and Little-goes, and Great-goes,
Till but the sweet bud be perfect, recede and retire for the lovers,
Yea, for the sweet love of lovers, postpone thyself even to doomsday!
Pass o’er them slowly, ye hours! Be with them, ye Loves and Graces!
Indirect and evasive no longer, a cowardly bather,
Clinging to bough and to rock, and sidling along by the edges,
In your faith, ye Muses and Graces, who love the plain present,
Scorning historic abridgment and artifice anti-poetic,