II

Yet, Oxford, it is better thou should’st know
That eyes which love thee in thy culture see
The withering curse of long sterility.
Rooted in England, thou hast ceased to grow
Together with her growth. Thy waters flow
Not with her broadening current to the sea,
But murmuring their delicious melody
They wander forth and wist not where they go.
And thus thy fine-edged spirit, which in high
Disdain hath never paltered with the pelf
Of modern rapine, doth too often fly
To endless crochets, wayward as an elf,
Self-humouring and posturing and shy,
And broods apart and lives unto itself.⁠[2]

Hesepe, 8th June

[2] It is hoped that it may not be thought too much of a liberty in an outsider to criticize anything so esoteric as the Oxford culture; but if so I should reply that it is just this esoteric quality which I wish to criticize. Admiration for Oxford and love of England alike compel me to deplore the fact that so typical a product of our national life should be so little representative.