Him For Us . . .
The rooms in School House echoed with the sound
Of words he spoke, his steps along the hall,
His laughter, even shouts. The outside ground,
In, say, the Close, though large, was far too small
For such a mind and soul. You might arrange
To kill him in an epic war, but death
Was tiny set beside him. It was strange
To him. His poetry, a shibboleth
That Keats had spoken as his native tongue,
Preserved young Rupert like a Pharaoh set
To rise to stars and raised his verses rung
By rung on Jacob’s ladder till he met
That place perfection makes for boys like this
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.And left him . . . as enlightenment and bliss.
~ Philllip Whidden