Canto LXXXV

I past beside the reverend walls

      In which of old I wore the gown;

      I roved at random through the town,

And saw the tumult of the halls;

And heard once more in college fanes

      The storm their high-built organs make,

      And thunder-music, rolling, shake

The prophets blazon'd on the panes;

And caught once more the distant shout,

      The measured pulse of racing oars

      Among the willows; paced the shores

And many a bridge, and all about

The same gray flats again, and felt

      The same, but not the same; and last

      Up that long walk of limes I past

To see the rooms in which he dwelt.

Another name was on the door:

      I linger'd; all within was noise

      Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys

That crash'd the glass and beat the floor;

Where once we held debate, a band

      Of youthful friends, on mind and art,

      And labour, and the changing mart,

And all the framework of the land;

When one would aim an arrow fair,

      But send it slackly from the string;

      And one would pierce an outer ring,

And one an inner, here and there;

And last the master-bowman, he

      Would cleave the mark. A willing ear

      We lent him. Who, but hung to hear

The rapt oration flowing free

From point to point with power and grace,

      And music in the bounds of law,

      To those conclusions when we saw

The God within him light his face,

And seem to lift the form, and glow

      In azure orbits heavenly-wise;

      And over those ethereal eyes

The bar of Michael Angelo.