At last he became a monk, and, on his knees,
Said holy prayers, and with wild penances
Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim
That, like a shadow, loiter’d over him,
Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed
With none of the mad thoughts that were at first
The poison of his quiet; but he grew
To love the world and its wild laughter too,
As he had known before: and wish’d again
To join the very mirth he hated then.