Classic Poem

In sleep the errant phantasy,
No more by sense imprisoned,
Creates what possibly might be
But actually isn't:
And this my tale is past belief,
Of truth and reason emptied,
'Tis fiction manifest--in brief
I was asleep, and dreamt it.

I met a man by Isis' stream,
Whose phrase discreet and prudent,
Whose penchant for a learned theme
Proclaimed the Serious Student:
I never knew a scholar who
Could more at ease converse on
The latest Classical Review
Than that superior person.

He spoke of books--all manly sports
He deemed but meet for scoffing:
He did not know the Racquet Courts--
He'd never heard of golfing--
Professors ne'er were half so wise,
Nor Readers more sedate!
He was--I learnt with some surprise--
An undergraduate.

Another man I met, whose head
Was crammed with pastime's annals,
And who, to judge from what he said,
Must simply live in flannels:
A shallow mind his talk proclaimed,
And showed of culture no trace:
One "book" and one alone he named--
His own--'twas on the Boat-race.

"Of course," you cry, "some brainless lad,
Some scion of ancient Tories,
Bob Acres, sent to Oxford ad
Emolliendos mores,
Meant but to drain the festive glass
And win the athlete's pewter!"
There you are wrong: this person was
That undergraduate's Tutor.

* * * *

Twas but a dream, I said above,
In concrete truth deficient,
Belonging to the region of
The wholly Unconditioned:
Yet, when I see how strange the ways
Of undergrad. and Don are,
Methinks it was, in classic phrase,
Not upar less than onar.