[154]
]For instance, the following poem struck him as exceptionally fine. He composed it at midnight, after eating his heart out in misery all the day. It was written in his blackest writing, as might be expected, and upon a sheet of grey note paper,—the University buff had suddenly offended his sense of fitness.
“Oh, what is life when all its joys are fled!
I am in love with Death’s long dreamful ease.
Over my head I hear th’ unwelcome tread
Of future years; my aching eye still sees
New suns arise and set, and seasons wane.
I would take arms against this sea of pain,
I would embrace Earth’s sea and sink to rest,
For ever lulled upon her soothing breast!
I would fling off this gift of Life, as you,