But I was weary’s master, and round the wheel went faster,
And like a wingèd demon, along the road I tore,
In an hour and three-quarters I had done of miles a score.
This I’d done, and nothing more.
And every minute faster, dreaming of no disaster,
Along the road, ’mid dust and stones, my bike her master bore.
While I my way was winging, I betook myself to singing,
When all my nerves were palsied by a distant sullen roar;
And that roaring stopped my singing, and thinks I it is a boar.
This I thought, and something more.