This is from a collection called 'The Oxford Year' by James Williams, about whom I know nothing except that he was at Lincoln College some time in the early twentieth century.
What city boasts herself the peer of thee,
Dear Oxford, when the mist of morning clings
Round Magdalen elms, or when the even flings
Her rosy robe on river, hill, and lea ?
The spirit of the summer rises free
From winter sleep and spreads her silver wings,
The sunny sky holds dreams of nobler things,
Dreams drifting helmless on a fairy sea!
In the green distance smites through cloister doors
The swift and rhythmic throb of racing oars,
The shout of victory and of defeat.
Oxford is Oxford most when May is May,
And Cherwell oarsmen pluck them hawthorn spray
From trees unpruned that shelter stripling wheat.