EXT. WELTON GROUNDS - DAY

Keating is walking down towards the lake, whistling the same tune as before.
The boys emerge from the building and chase after him.

    NEIL
  Mr. Keating? Mr. Keating? Sir? Oh Captain,
  My Captain?

Keating immediately turns around.

    KEATING
  Gentlemen.

    NEIL
  We were just looking in your old annual.

He hands Keating the annual and Keating looks at his old photograph.

    KEATING
  Oh my God. No, that's not me. Stanley
  "The Tool" Wilson-

Keating crouches down and continues looking through the book.

    KEATING
  God.

Neil crouches down next to Keating.

    NEIL
  What was the Dead Poets Society?

    KEATING
  I doubt the present administration would
  look too favorably upon that.

    NEIL
  Why? What was it?

    KEATING
  Gentlemen, can you keep a secret?

    NEIL
  Sure.

The other boys crouch down around Keating.

    KEATING
  The Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking
  the marrow out of life. That's a phrase
  from Thoreau that we'd invoke at the
  beginning of each meeting. You see we'd
  gather at the old Indian cave and take
  turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman,
  Shelley; the biggies. Even some of our
  own verse. And in the enchantment of the
  moment we'd let poetry work its magic.

    KNOX
  You mean it was a bunch of guys sitting
  around reading poetry?

    KEATING
  No Mr. Overstreet, it wasn't just "guys",
  we weren't a Greek organization, we were
  romantics. We didn't just read poetry,
  we let it drip from our tongues like honey.
  Spirits soared, women swooned, and gods
  were created, gentlemen, not a bad way to
  spend an evening eh? Thank you Mr. Perry
  for this trip down amnesia lane. Burn that,
  especially my picture.