oxford: a villanelle

In a conversation with Mr. Charles Greenberg that took place about half an hour ago, we were discussing the near-impossibility of writing a good villanelle. I submit as proof my first draft of the villanelle I attempted on the fly; I only post it at all because it's about Oxford:

A year spent wand’ring under ancient spires

that punctuate the city as they dream:

this new world that, in reaching down, inspires

sweet visions of the Bard’s bare ruined choirs

that, crumbling, are complicit in my scheme:

a year spent wand’ring under ancient spires.

Every Bodleian moment lights the fires.

Swimming with ideas, these textbooks teem

with this new world that, in reaching down, inspires

oars dipping in and out of cold sapphires—

the sun reflected in a bright Thames gleam—

a year spent wand’ring under ancient spires:

charm so rare could but be Oxfordshire’s.

The tea-sets plenty, scones with jam and cream:

this new world that, in reaching down, inspires 

me ever to be what this place requires—

joining with my own words in the stream

of years spent wand’ring under ancient spires:

this new world that—in reaching down—inspires.