The old worn world of hurry and heat,
The young, fresh world of thought and scope;
While you, where silent surges fleet
Tow’rd far sky-beaches still and sweet,
Sunk wavering down the ocean-slope;
Come back our ancient walks to tread,
Old haunts of lost or scattered friends,
Amid the Muses’ factories red,
Where song, and smoke, and laughter sped
The nights to proctor-haunted ends.