Often they tell me College is a myth, 
That youth will fade and youthful glories die. 
Time's hand, they say will mar each memory 
And turn each dream into a biting lie. 

Perhaps they know. I do not say I'm right; 
I think that many times within the man 
Are outer atmospheres conceived and born. 
Inner to outer is not much to span. 

Let them go snarling on. Not saccharinely 
But doubting, proving, seeing will I go. 
Stop I will not if they say life is our, 
I'll go on testing it until I know. 

         Sandy Doone.