It isn't the young men sprawling in chairs I mind.

(Though when I was a student we sat straight.)

It isn't that I mind much the coughing, or cutting

My classes, or ignorant ignorance of the past.

(When I was a student, we said Sir, stood to recite.)

It isn't that I mind ideas. I had some, too,

And was told it wasn't right, and it wouldn't do,

And it couldn't be, and I had them just the same.

It isn't the clothes. It isn't the swing music.

But sometimes I walk the college streets at night,

Hands rammed into topcoat pockets, collar up,

Kicking the leaves before me, cursing the College,

Cursing the dull dear young indifferent damned,

The boys and girls who never wanted to know,

And never will, but can be passed in the course.