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on evil as evil, whether it's clothed in filth or monotony or
"God! Haven't we raked the universe over the coals for four years?"
Then the night came that was to be the last. Tom and Amory, bound in the
morning for different training-camps, paced the shadowy walks as usual
and seemed still to see around them the faces of the men they knew.
"The grass is full of ghosts to-night."
"The whole campus is alive with them."
They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to make silver of the
slate roof of Dodd and blue the rustling trees.
"You know," whispered Tom, "what we feel now is the sense of all the
gorgeous youth that has rioted through here in two hundred years."
A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Arch--broken voices for
some long parting.
"And what we leave here is more than this class; it's the whole heritage
of youth. We're just one generation--we're breaking all the links that
seemed to bind us here to top-booted and high-stocked generations. We've
walked arm and arm with Burr and Light-Horse Harry Lee through half
these deep-blue nights."
"That's what they are," Tom tangented off, "deep blue--a bit of color
would spoil them, make them exotic. Spires, against a sky that's
a promise of dawn, and blue light on the slate roofs--it hurts...
"Good-by, Aaron Burr," Amory called toward deserted Nassau Hall, "you
and I knew strange corners of life."
His voice echoed in the stillness.
"The torches are out," whispered Tom. "Ah, Messalina, the long shadows
are building minarets on the stadium--"
For an instant the voices of freshman year surged around them and then
they looked at each other with faint tears in their eyes.
The last light fades and drifts across the land--the low, long land, the
sunny land of spires; the ghosts of evening tune again their lyres and
wander singing in a plaintive band down the long corridors of trees;
pale fires echo the night from tower top to tower: Oh, sleep that
dreams, and dream that never tires, press from the petals of the lotus
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