I could not keep the thread of argument;
I could not hold my mind upon the book;
I could not break the silent under-tow
That swept all else from out my throbbing brain
But false Pauline. I read from morn till night,
But having closed the book I could not tell
Aught of its contents. Then I cursed myself,
And muttered--'Fool--can you not shake it off--
This nightmare of your boyhood?--Brave, indeed--
Crushed like a spaniel by this false Pauline!
Crushed am I?--By the gods, I'll make an end,
And she shall never know it nettled me!'
So passed the weary days. My cheeks grew thin;
I needed rest, I said, and quit my books
To range the fields and hills with fowling-piece
And '_mal prepense_' toward the feathery flocks.
The pigeons flew from tree-tops o'er my head;
I heard the flap of wings--and they were gone;
The pheasant whizzed from bushes at my feet
Unseen until its sudden whir of wings
Startled and broke my wandering reverie;
And then I whistled and relapsed to dreams,
Wandering I cared not whither--wheresoe'er
My silent gun still bore its primal charge.
So gameless, but with cheeks and forehead tinged
By breeze and sunshine, I returned to books.
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