Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,
Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon....
and
Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe,
Returning home on summer nights, have met
Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe,
Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet....
and
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating to the breath