I arrived, in that chilly rainy atmosphere,
With Bob Dylan whispering in my ears,
Questioning “how many roads may a man walk down”
And telling me not to fear.
Standing on the side of the road,
I saw the old knowledgeable stone stacking up in the cold
With millions of stories engraved into the patterns gold,
Wondering how the architecture
balances the extraordinary complexity.
I want my stories here left to fold
So I promised myself not to float.
Then I saw a tree,
A tall gentle special tree.
An isolated tree whipped by the wild wind,
But still tried to stand elegantly on the greens
I guess it’s the Yale spirit,
That’s blowing on the street.
