We go to college to gain science and knowlodge ... Because in high school we dont specialize in specific field like medicine , engineering or arts ...so we go to colleges ..

Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night

In ever-nearing circles weaves her shade.

I see her veil draw soft across the day,

And long the way appears, which seem'd so short

And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air,

The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth,

There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here Sole in these fields!

yet will I not despair. Despair I will not, while I yet descry

That lonely tree against the western sky.

Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay,

Woods with anemonies in flower till May,

Know him a wanderer still.

Roam on!

Then let in thy voice a whisper often come,

To chase fatigue and fear: "Why faintest thou!

I wander'd till I died. Roam on!

The light we sought is shining still.

Our tree yet crowns the hill,

Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side."

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http://creative.sulekha.com/one-of-my-favorite-poems-an-oxford-elegy-set-to-music-by-my-favorite-composer_435122_blog

He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown!
What matters it? next year he will return,
And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days,
With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern,
And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways,
And scent of hay new-mown.
He will return.
But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see.
Never more.

Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour
In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill!
I know these slopes; who knows them if not I? --
But many a tingle on the loved hillside,
With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees,
Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried
High towered the spikes of purple orchises,
Hath since our day put by
The coronals of that forgotten time.
They are all gone, and thou art gone as well.

Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm,
Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns
The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames?
The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs,
The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames?--
That single elm-tree bright
Against the west - I miss it! is it gone?
We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said,
Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead;
While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.
Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart
Into the world and wave of men depart;
But Thyrsis of his own will went away.

So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry,
From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees,
Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze:
The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I!
Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?

Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on,
Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,
Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,
Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell,
And stocks in fragrant blow;
Roses that down the alleys shine afar,
And open, jasmine-muffled lattices,
And groups under the dreaming garden-trees,
And the full moon, and the white evening-star.

Or in my boat I lie
Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats,
'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills,
And watch the warm green-muffled Cumnor hills,
And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.
Leaning backwards in a pensive dream,
And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers
Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers,
And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream,
And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall.

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill
Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge
Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,
Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge?
And thou hast climb'd the hill
And gain'd the white brow of the Cumnor range;
Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,
The line of festal light in Christ Church hall
Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.

But what - I dream! Two hundred years are flown
And thou from earth art gone
Long since and in some quiet churchyard laid;
Some country nook, where o'er thy unknown grave
Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave
Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's shade.

No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours.
Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we,
Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?
See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men
To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays!
Here came I often, often, in old days;
Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.