 | Wild honey from various thyme |  |
113
OXFORD
Dear city, not for what thou wert of yoreI love thee—for the blotting shades of yew
On thy rare lawns, the rich sweep of the dew
Crystal between the mulberry-berried floor,
The fig-leaf-dropping path; by one low door
The grape-vine with its clustering bunches blue,
And violet, dull leaves; the one or two
Pears ripening round the gargoyles, or before
Thy blackened halls. Thy charm is in the air
And haunts it as a ghost: the balsam scent
And withering of thy flowers is as elsewhere
In autumn meadow-lands it cannot be:
So much fair hope, so many summers spent—
'Tis Nature with the ruth of history.
| Wild honey from various thyme | |