Oxford is one of those places that thrive upon its inspirational, historical, and magical pervading qualities. When hearing the names and the works that came out of Oxford, I had often questioned what sort of place it must be. However, after a few hours, the questioning stops. It is truly indescribable how the spirit of the city emanates in the way it does, from its meadows, hidden doors, winding streets, architectural faces and creatures.
One day was not enough. (a return trip has already been planned)
I wonder if anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking.
William Butler Yeats.
That sweet city with her dreaming spires.
If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there.
Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,
Like a picture so fair to the sight?
That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow.
‘Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,
And the name of the secret is Love!
Reason is the natural order of truth; but imagination is the organ of meaning.
“The Road goes ever on and on down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, and I must follow, if I can, pursuing it with eager feet, until it joins some larger way where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say.”