Just over one year ago I arrived in England to start a new chapter as a graduate student. It was an unusually sunny week when I arrived, not a drop of rain to be seen as I lugged my suitcases from the terminal at Heathrow to the bus station and finally to Cambridge. Going abroad was something I had always wanted to do, and here I was, bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to see what this university town had in store for me.

What this story recounts is not the adventure of discovering a new college, city, country, and continent. What I recount here are not the difficulties of adapting to a new life, and the sweetness of making a new home somewhere so far away from where I was raised.

This story is about leaving.

It's March 2020. Spain and Italy had been reckoning with coronavirus for weeks, and now it was the UK and US's turn to nervously try to impose some order. I left the UK with a mix of fear and dread, not knowing if and when I would be able to return. The feeling of being ripped apart from my new home made me miss it with each step I took toward the train station. I thought maybe I'd never again be able to stroll through the gardens of my residential college, Christ's College. Just watch the video below and you'll see why.

One evening at home in Washington I stumbled across the delightful Robert Frost poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. The poem struck me as it never had before. All of a sudden I felt the subtle intensity of his not being able to stay in the snowy woods and lake, the inevitability of obligations that pull you away from a lovely little corner of the world. Perhaps never to return again.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake 

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

And on the theme of leaving, I recalled the Xu Zhi Mo poem that a dear friend of mine shared with me to congratulate me on my acceptance here. Taking Leave of Cambridge Again (1928) is one of the most sublime poems I have read.

Taking leave of Cambridge Again

Xu Zhi Mo

Softly I am leaving,

Just as softly as I came;

I softly wave goodbye

To the clouds in the western sky.

The golden willows by the riverside

Are young brides in the setting sun;

Their glittering reflections on the shimmering river

Keep undulating in my heart.

The green tape grass rooted in the soft mud

Sways leisurely in the water;

I am willing to be such a waterweed

In the gentle flow of the River Cam.

That pool in the shade of elm trees

Holds not clear spring water, but a rainbow

Crumpled in the midst of duckweeds,

Where rainbow-like dreams settle.

To seek a dream? Go punting with a long pole,

Upstream to where green grass is greener,

With the punt laden with starlight,

And sing out loud in its radiance.

Yet now I cannot sing out loud,

Peace is my farewell music;

Even crickets are now silent for me,

For Cambridge this evening is silent.

Quietly I am leaving,

Just as quietly as I came;

Gently waving my sleeve,

I am not taking away a single cloud.

The last four lines are forever inscribed on a this rock marking the entrance of a small garden just alongside the river Cam.

(Qing qing de wo zuo le / zhèng rú wo qing qing de lái. / Wo hui yi hui yi xiù / bú dàizou yí piàn yúncai.)

Quietly now I leave the Cam,

As quietly as I came.

Gently waving my sleeve,

I am not taking away a single cloud.

I couldn't have made a quieter exit, nor a quieter return last month. The lines I have written below are my rendering of the Frost and Xu poems. It comes nowhere near the soft perfection of the originals. I present it to you anyway with a suspicion that you know the feeling of being forced to leave or forced to stay, of not being able to be exactly where you want to be, doing what you want to be doing. I present it to you to in solidarity. I quietly feel the same.

Stopping by Christ’s on an Autumn Evening

Hannah Hassani

What flowers these are I do not know,

They’re blooming in the garden though.

No one will spot me stopping here,

To glimpse the petals in their row.

I linger though I have not time,

And sniff each scent along the line.

Where does that golden dahlia hide?

Did winter steal her precious vine?

I meant to call; I live close by,

But spring came; we said goodbye.

I saw no dahlia, nor dewdrops, nor sun,

Nor even students, for we’d all gone.

I missed spring, and summer too.

My evening stroll? Well, it’s not true.

I have an ocean to cross to be with you,

An ocean to cross to be with you.

**

Post Script

I returned to the Fellow's Garden as soon as my two week self-isolation period was over. I couldn't find the exact dahlia I photographed the year before, but her gorgeous cousin waved at me as her petals glistened in the September rain.