I love the shadows of things; Pale, grey, patternings In the aqueous wonder of dawn: Elm branches distort, Outrageously wrought On a woven texture of lawn. Cloud shadows that go In stateliest pacing Of nebulous gracing Down valleys of tumbled loam: Faint shapes in the snow Intricately interlacing, Of moonlight tracing: The shifting shadow of foam on foam. _K. MOUNSEY_ (_HOME STUDENT_) TO A LITTLE HOUSE IN OXFORD Through the half-opened door the light streams out Across the street, And lays a path of gold on stones worn grey By passing feet. I catch a glimpse of flowers in quaint old bowls Standing in gloom, And many books on intimate low shelves Go round the room. _R. M. S. PASLEY_ (_UNIVERSITY_) THE DIVER I saw a figure standing in the mist Dim and alone upon a column's height Which fell in marble precipice of white Down to the sea. Sudden the clean sun kissed His arms wide-stretching to the finger-tips, And showed his supple body glistening Clear in the naked heaven, and the ring Of a gay laugh broke eager from his lips; So would I stand upon the dizzy ledge When I have lived, shake back my tumbled hair, Deliberately toe the empty edge, Laugh out my last defiance to the air, Then raise my arms, and, drinking one deep breath, Eye-open plunge into the sea of Death. _V. DE S. PINTO_ (_CHRIST CHURCH_) STATION Late at night in the station It is cold: the gas lamps shine, Down-pointing pyramids of yellow light In a long, solemn line. People are waiting on the platform, Pacing to the end and back, Or sitting huddled, drowsy, on the seats, All dressed in black. Their faces look pale and delicate like ivory; Far off in the night, Like the sinister eye of a wild beast, Winks a green light. So still, so still: a faint scream in the distance, Then silence and the train Crashes in, a golden horse, fiercely triumphant, Tossing his fiery mane. SWANS You too have seen the great white swans, who glide Upon the lonely waters of the world, Curving their delicate necks with queenly pride Above the shining mirror, wherein is whirled All the wild seething mob of human things, The riot of men and those strange gods and kings, They set up on great golden thrones and crown With garlands of bright stars, then drag them down Into the mud with fierce tumultuous cries. Yes, all these wild reflections soon will pass, The drunken laughter and the vast distress, And the waters will be clear as polished glass, Imaging only calm unruffled skies, And the swans will still sail on in their proud loveliness. _H. S. REID_ (_SOMERVILLE_) A DREAM