It was late summer or early autumn,
You could take it either way,
And the exam results were out.
I saw him walk uncertainly
Across the quad towards an interview,
And I remembered what I was
When timidly I came.
He looked fragile despite his youth,
Unsure of where to go,
And of what to say when he arrived.
Alone and thin
In a grey suit.
School was done
And now at Oxford
What was there to come?
Three years of patient work
With friends both new and old?
With time for play from day to day
And youth’s mad excesses more or less controlled?
Or will he try to change the world
In these three short years
And take upon his shoulders
Each injustice that appears?
Or will neuroses lie in wait
And ambush the young mind
That childhood had protected?
But childhood is now behind.
Or will three years of sport come now,
A rugby blue or one for rowing perhaps?
And study is wedged in here and there
Between the hours of sweat and strain,
Sharpening the body to a fine pitch.
Now he has reached the door,
And squares his shoulders
And then knocks so timidly.
What will await him now
In this strange world?
Will he enjoy his three-year stay
In these quadrangles so grey?
I wonder and I fear.
‘Will he be happy here?’