A SCHOLAR WROTE<br >A scholar wrote (in Oxford，<br >City of the books， the bells，<br >of the dead， old and new dead pressed<br >Against the stones， dead crowding<br >Narrow courts and walking on the grass)<br >In brittle cold he wrote<br >How a desert South of Sinai<br >Gave Elijah the cloak of fire，<br >How God (O crumpled don， 0 gentleman<br >With wit like the grin of Rameses)<br >In muddled omniscience troubled to mark<br >Cain s smooth forehead when no man lived<br >To regard the sign， no one at all，<br >Except his parents and himself.<br >A scholar wrote (in Oxford，<br >City of liturgies， Christ in quotations，<br >Quotations neatly turned from antique tongues)<br >Yet no one judged; thunderbolts did not come.<br >When finished， he walked to clear his mind--<br >Serene and undisturbed in twilight<br >He walked and cleared his mind of myths<br >(In Oxford， city of deliquescing towers，<br >City of the dead).<br >
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