Epilogue When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book And slowly read and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep William Butler Yeats 128 By Ash and Grave Althea Andelin Roberts '45 "Old Moench," I see you are gone. Ponderosas mark your grave and stand in reverent tribute, saluting what is now a field of yarrow, grass, and tumble weed. I hear a dirge that drifts through wind. New grass blades knife uneven soil where red brick walls squared and rooted into lives. The brown worn steps that led to labs where cats lay open on dissecting boards drift with formaldehyde through years. Rows of bottles lined the window dust, and microscope and salamander's cage plucked thoughts from bright young heads, while spectacles peered into future hows and whens and whys. Here is the ghost of Figaro, who laughed upon your stage and claims his second curtain call. The Desert Fox and Falling Night still prance to audiences who climbed your stair into delight. Lilting organ strains from J. Clair's fingers have abruptly stopped. Our "Purple and White " seems foreign on the hill. Your face in oil is placed on modern wall by newer rock, another time. They will never know you. Flame devoured but held solemn pledge with generations, not yet old, from Prophet s foot to World War II cadets who flew your halls. And we stand tall embalmed in yesterdays, each kindred spirit to recall from all who walked the portals of your hours. The golden knights who guarded eastern doors. Lay packed away in boxes of dead air. The blaze released them from their vigil. New ones will not see their shiny noses polished by the hands who brushed our walls, filled our rooms with augured light, and lifted us to sky. 129