Here's to Clarence Glasrud,
Young at ninety-two,
Who's still receiving accolades
And should, let me tell you!

Of all the 60'S MS profs
That dabbled in the Word,
He was, to me, the noblest
Among the bookish birds.

I'll not forget Joe Satin
And his grand Shakespeare scene
Or fail to mention Roland Dille
And his rich rollicking.

And Short was there, quite long on Green
And Hanna with his mods
And my sweet mentor, Bellamy,
Not least among these gods.

But when I'm asked who did the most
To make me love great lit,
My mind brings forth Soc's noble head,
With laurel crowing it.

I see Him still, his text in hand
The class in transport bound
Singing "The Death of Arthur"
Or Matthew Arnold's song:

"Strew on her roses, roses
And never a sprig of rue"
So, if you please, sweet Clarence,
I'll fling this rose for you:

Yours was devout love, pure and bright;
That love of books caught me;
Could it be anything but right
To follow after thee?

And so to thee I tip my hat
Soc, wisest of the Owls.
Long may your legend resonate
Through all these storied halls.

And may you find at last the Word
That Fathered all our lives
And save me a seat when we study Him
Some day in Paradise.


Gene Pinkney


Copyright 2006  Gene Pinkney
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