There’s a gleam of sun on the grey old street Where we used to walk in the Oxford days, And dream that the world lay beneath our feet In the dawn of a summer morning. Now the years have passed, and it’s we who lie Crushed under the burden of world-wide woe, But the misty magic will never die From the dawn of an Oxford morning. And the end delays, and perhaps no more I shall see the spires of my youth’s delight, But they’ll gladden my eyes as in days of yore At the dawn of Eternal Morning. June 1917.
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