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
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.