The high Towers decline before this woe,
The great river does not flow ahead,
But they’re strong – the locks of a dorm, stone,
And behind them – the quads, dark and low,
And the deadly Buckeye nuts are spread.
For some one, somewhere, a fresh wind blows,
For some one, somewhere, wakes up a dawn –
We don’t know, we’re the same here always,
We just hear the key’s squalls, morose,
And Alex’s heavy step alone;
Got up early, as for Mass by Easter,
Walked the empty capital along
To create the half-dead peoples’ throng.
The sun downed, the Olentangy got mister,
But our hope sang afar its song.
There’s a sentence… In a trice tears flow…
Now separated, cut from us,
As if they’d pulled out Urban’s heart and thrown
Or pushed down him on a street stone –
But he goes… Reels… Alone at once.
Where are now friends unwilling those,
Those friends of my two years, brute?
What they see in the M*chigan snows,
In a circle of the moon, exposed?
To them I send my farewell salute.
Looking Ahead: Punters