Gently closer winter creeps down the mountain peaks to chase the sun away and, each evening, dusk is quicker in its fall than the last and in this fading, precious light, I sit between these old, hallowed halls to stare unseeing into these soulless eyes of Whitman as he writes of grass and leaves so eloquently, here I watch and try to learn.
My campus has a statue of Walt Whitman writing and his eyes are just holes, so yeah, that was the inspiration.