I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember
If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.
I call on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent?
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.