I often think that when I’m old and grey,
Mechanically living through each day,
That when like all the rest I’ve found my groove
With little room for heart or mind to move,
But just enough to eat and work and dress;
And keep a failing temper more or less--
In tired sleep I’ll sometimes creep away
Back down the years to some old Oxford way.
And on this daisied lawn again I’ll lie,
And listen while the river folk go by;
And through the trees I’ll sometimes see the flash
Of punters’ poles and hear the rhythmic splash
Of oars; and over there again I’ll see
The petalled path beneath the cherry-tree,
And love the hawthorn scent, the cuckoo’s cry,
And Magdalen chiming while the spring runs by.
And you’ll be there, dear phantom friend, and you,
And you familiar faces that I knew
So well; and toward the ending of the day
We’ll sit and talk--the old accustomed way,
Till in the mutual calm we’ll see unfurled
The immeasurable vastness of the world
And I shall dream of all that I will do
With Life--and so will you, and you and you.
_RUSSELL GREEN_
(_QUEEN’S_)