Oxfordian Truth


At Oxford, ideas are a set of closed doors that knock back.

Its halls echo every earnestly offered thought for hours—

Sometimes in honor, sometimes in jest.

Chalky portraits of old scholars, dead men in white wigs

Or noses bent look down from the library walls. They

Are trying to tell you, but you are not listening:

Truth and hope are not synonymous.

Reason cannot give you a reason for


Try again

When the dusty, frayed edged books

Towering inside the walls of Radcliffe’s

Iceberg dome are the desire of your heart;

Knowledge and love are two things set apart.


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