Belovéd Bath, wherein my tiréd feet
Have oft-time plunged before the peaceful hour
When sleep descends, within you blooms the flower
Of rosy youth. Across the years I greet
Him who to me bequeath’d thee. Ever plastic,
His figure to thy cracked enamel clings.
I see him now, a bariton at King’s,
A little sharp, but so enthusiastic!
Belovéd Bath, when my last sleep shall claim me,
You will remain, a silent witness to
The foolish things that Undergradu’tes do.
And though the word might judge, you will not blame me.
You will remember and you will not speak
The lines he wrote in you to me in Greek.