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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... rather--" "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. "Damn!" "Damn!" 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 flower something of this to keep, the essence of an hour. No more to wait the twilight of the moon in this sequestered vale of star and spire, for one eternal morning of desire passes to time and earthy afternoon. Here, Heraclitus, did you find in fire and shifting things the prophecy you hurled down the dead years; this midnight my desire will see, shadowed among the embers, furled in flame, the splendor and the sadness of the world. INTERLUDE May, 1917-February, 1919 A letter dated January, 1918, written by Monsignor Darcy to Amory, who is a second lieutenant in the 171st Infantry, Port of Embarkation, Camp Mills, Long Island. MY DEAR BOY: All you need tell me of yourself is that you still are; for the rest I merely search back in a restive memory, a thermometer that records only fevers, and match you with what I was at your age. But men will chatter and you and I will still sh
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