To The Master Of Balliol

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

　　

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Dear Master in our classic town, You, loved by all the younger gown There at Balliol, Lay your Plato for one minute down, II And read a Grecian tale re-told, Which, cast in later Grecian mould, Quintus Calaber Somewhat lazily handled of old; III And on this white midwinter day— For have the far-off hymns of May, All her melodies, All her harmonies echo’d away?— IV To-day, before you turn again To thoughts that lift the soul of men, Hear my cataract’s Downward thunder in hollow and glen, V Till, led by dream and vague desire, The woman, gliding toward the pyre, Find her warrior Stark and dark in his funeral fire.

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