Canto LXXXV
I past beside the reverend wallsIn 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 fanesThe storm their high-built organs make,And thunder-music, rolling, shakeThe prophets blazon’d on the panes;
And caught once more the distant shout,The measured pulse of racing oarsAmong the willows; paced the shoresAnd many a bridge, and all about
The same gray flats again, and feltThe same, but not the same; and lastUp that long walk of limes I pastTo see the rooms in which he dwelt.
Another name was on the door:I linger’d; all within was noiseOf songs, and clapping hands, and boysThat crash’d the glass and beat the floor;
Where once we held debate, a bandOf 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, heWould cleave the mark. A willing earWe lent him. Who, but hung to hearThe rapt oration flowing free
From point to point with power and grace,And music in the bounds of law,To those conclusions when we sawThe God within him light his face,
And seem to lift the form, and glowIn azure orbits heavenly-wise;And over those ethereal eyesThe bar of Michael Angelo.