From 'A Vision of Oxford'

Methought I met a Lady yester even;
A passionless grief, that had nor tear nor wail,
Sat on her pure proud face, that gleam'd to Heaven
White as a moonlit sail.

She spake: 'On this pale brow are looks of youth,
Yet angels listening on the argent floor
Know that these lips have been proclaiming truth
Nine hundred years and more;

'And Isis knows what time-grey towers rear'd up,
Gardens and groves and cloister'd halls are mine;
When quaff my sons from many a myrrhine cup
Draughts of ambrosial wine.

'He knows how night by night my lamps are lit,
How day by day my bells are ringing clear, —
Mother of ancient lore and Attic wit
And discipline severe.

And I have led my children on steep mountains
By fine attraction of my spirit brought
Up to the dark inexplicable fountains
That are the springs of thought:

'Led them, where on the old poetic shore
The flowers that change not with the changing moon
Breathe round young hearts, as breathes the sycamore
About the bees in June.

'And I will bear them as on eagle's wings,
To leave them bow'd before the sapphire Throne,
High o'er the haunts where dying Pleasure sings
With sweet and swan-like tone.

'And I will lead the age's great expansions,
Progressive circles t'ward thought's Sabbath rest,
And point beyond them to the many mansions
Where Christ is with the blest.