O vase of acid,
It is love you are full of . . .

Walking into class at Boston University one February in 1959, I sat down next to a young woman who, like myself, had gotten there early. The chairs were in disarray around the seminar table, and the windows looked out on busy Commonwealth Avenue below. Robert Lowell was, as usual, a bit late, and most of the class on time, so there was always an awkward wait. There was little talk, a low murmur to the person most immediately proximate, but students did not interact easily. It was rather like going to church, edging into a pew, trying not to call attention to one's self, and waiting for the service to start. People said hello self-consciously but mostly sat and prepared themselves for what was to come.