A poem by Thomas Thornburg from Ancient Letters

(for Robert Evans)

Sunburned and blonde the fresh insouciance,
That quarter of the solar year comes round
When some will keep and some will quit this ground.
Your leaving reaves us,
Leaves us less a lance.
Go where you will, you go with Fergus now,
Far from the deans, where minutes are not kept
Where sleep is easy, nothing like these snow-
Filled quads in which we grimly muster
And moot where sleepless Teachers College has not slept.
Go where you will, and leave us our disaster.
You may do salmon-leaps for all we care,
Go garbed in gabs, or jests, or hair,
And flee these standards. We shall find you there,
And blame you.
Dimmer Arete now, and less in deeds,
This school we keep will be a different school,
A little less in parliamentary procedure,
A little more disorder in the rules.
Out with you then, who leave us to tally our losses,
This clashing academy, this rattle of blades upon bosses,
Pronouncements of provosts, promotional lists, the shitty
Remarks over cocktails, recorded in austere graffiti,
Or returned to committee.
Returning September the opening rosters will find you
Gone with the ring-givers, far from the registrar’s runings,
Far from the sophomores sunk in their gloom.
Lucky beloved man, go follow your doom.