Clouds, little clouds, tell me whither are you going to, Spun by the sun of the shearing of the sea? "Thither we are bound, where the West Wind is blowing to, Off on a holiday, merrymakers we." Clouds, merry clouds, will you wait till I may fly to you, Share in the frolic of your gay company? "Nay, for the West Wind bids us say good-bye to you, Save if your chariot be speedier than he." Swift are my steeds: at the thunderous career of them The high, lone silences that cradle you will flee. "Think you our hilarity will tremble at the fear of them, We who laugh in thunder and lighten in our glee?" Then will I fly to you, dance with you, play with you, Hover on your breast where the shadow cannot be. "Hurry, brother, hurry, for we may not delay with you, Off on a holiday, merrymakers we." _E. P. CHASE_ (_MAGDALEN_) SEVEN MISTS 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 Reflected from that pallid sun When it sets, hardly bright, Behind Merton tower, daylight done. When the moon, silver-hued, Through Cowley generated mist Tears its way and glimmers nude Above Magdalen tower, it keeps tryst With that spirit of my soul Which would glide through Oxford streets, Still, unseen, without control, With wide eyes scanning whom it meets. _W. R. CHILDE_ (_MAGDALEN_) LES HALLUCINÉS This is the singing of the sons of Hâli, As they stand at their booth-doors when brazen eve Covers the city of Chrysopolis Like the vast cup of an inverted flower, And into the pale blue cope of marble twilight Steal up men's souls like incense strange and pure. "This is the singing of the sons of Hâli, To you, O seraphs, where you lean your breasts Upon the perfumed clouds of sunsetting, And your huge wings, enormous, like a swan's, Alone cover with silver plumes of fire Your long sides, strange as pictures in Toledo-- "O seraphs, with your melting eyes like girls', And rosy breasts embosomed in the eve, Vouchsafe to us a little rain of coins, Of golden sequins tumbling through our sleep; Give us of heavenly gold, we have none earthly, And stab our souls with seeds of sworded fire."-- _This_ is the singing of the sons of Hâli. _E. A. C. CLARKE_ (_KEBLE_) FLOWERS Shining, never-thirsty flowers, That by the water-side Do never plaintive cry for showers To damp their local pride. Lazy they wag their lovely heads, Nodding that way and this, Lithe bodies upon mossy beds With lips bedewed that kiss.