The above quote is from Adam Wilson (Class of 2005). Read the full memory below:

I didn’t go to the Rock to study. I preferred cafes. But I did occasionally visit the Rock on treasure hunts. As a lifelong lover of libraries, I was amazed by the sheer volume of books available to us undergrads at Brown. I would go down to the darkest part of a random floor and look for books that called to me.

On one such treasure-hunting expedition I pulled a book with a particularly worn cover. I did so giddily, half expecting a secret chamber to appear, Scooby Doo-style. Sadly, no trap doors opened, but I did get sucked into the story itself. It was a tale from a different time, something that wouldn’t get written today. Something about a fairy prince, I think. Partway through the book I came upon a short poem. I jotted down the lines into a notebook. I’m not sure why, but something about them resonated with me. Here they are:

“Come, my Rose, my Rosa Munda, my flower of the whole earth! come to bloom forever in my garden; to be cherished forever in my heart!”

That poem is still the only poem I know by heart. I came to know those lines not by trying to memorize them, but by repeatedly writing it on bits of paper that I left for my girlfriend in her Keeney Quad dorm room. Under pillows, in coffee mugs, inside her pre-med books, I would slip in this poem for her, loving the idea that at some point she would find it and smile.

The trick must have worked. Thirteen years later, that freshman year girlfriend and I are married. We’ve just had our first baby (Admissions Office: if you’re reading this, make sure to reserve him a space in the class of 2036). I still occasionally scribble down the poem on the random post-it or napkin. I just might put one in the baby’s diaper bag.

While I can’t give the Rock all the credit for the love in my life, there’s no denying that the magic of that concrete box full of books is powerful stuff. That poem found me. And I found expression in that poem. I still love the image of love blooming forever in our hearts, as if love exists in a perpetual state of becoming, of bursting silently like a crocus bulb. So thanks, Rock. And happy 50th!