In me my ghost when young, us both in Oxford.
You, the tow-haired undergraduate
With jaunty liftings of the head.
Angular forward stride, cross-questioning glance,
A Buster Keaton-faced pale gravitas
Saying aloud your poems whose letters bit
Ink-deep into my fingers when I set
Them up upon my five-pound printing press:
'An evening like a coloured photograph
A music stultified across the water
The heel upon the finishing blade of grass.')
Stephen Spender
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