The beauty of the High is not in brilliance

Nor in a florid sculpturing of stone,

Nor radiant colours, brave design, smooth stones,

But the wide curve and placid flow,—and that

St. Mary's spire and seven twilight mists

Are hanging over Oxford towers to-night.

I am clothed with furtive light

I am clothed with furtive light

Reflected from that pallid sun

When it sets, hardly bright,