her serenade? One short laugh for the antic finger Thrumming a lute-string frayed? Once, my dear—but the world was young then— Magdalen elms and Trinity limes— Lissom the blades and the backs that swung then, Eight good men in the good old times— Careless we, and the chorus flung then Under St Mary's chimes! Reins lay loose and the ways led random— Christ Church meadow and Iffley track, "Idleness horrid and dog-cart" (tandem), Aylesbury grind and Bicester pack— Pleasant our lines, and faith! we scanned 'em: Having that artless knack. 

Know you her secret none can utter?

Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown?

Still on the spire the pigeons flutter,

Still by the gateway flits the gown;

Still on the street, from corbel and gutter,

Faces of stone look down.

Faces of stone, and stonier faces—

Some from library windows wan

Forth on her gardens, her green spaces,

Peer and turn to their books anon.

Hence, my Muse, from the green oases

Gather the tent, begone!

Under the rooms where once she played,

Who from the feast would rise to fling her

One poor sou for her serenade?

One short laugh for the antic finger

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