My very soul was taken: I had no need to read them twice: I've never seen them since: I shall not forget them so long as this machine lasts. They flooded my eyes with tears, my heart with passionate admiration. In this state the old gentlemen came back and found me, a cowboy to all appearance, lost, tear-drowned in Swinburne.
"I think that's my book", he said calling me back to dull reality. "Surely", I replied bowing; "but what magnificent poetry and I never heard of Swinburne before." "This is his first book I believe", said the old gentleman, "but I'm glad you like his verses; "Like", I cried, "who could help adoring them!" and I let myself go to recite the Proserpine:
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever Gods may be
That no life lives forever,
That dead men rise up never,
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
"Why you've learned it by heart!", cried the old man in wonder; "learned", I repeated, "I know half the book by heart: if you had stayed away another half hour, I'd have known it all and I went on reciting for the next ten minutes.
"I never heard of such a thing in my life", he cried: "fancy a cowboy who learns Swinburne by merely reading him. It's astounding! Where are you going!" "To Lawrence," I replied. "We're almost there," he added and then, "I wish you would let me give you the book. I can easily get another copy and I think it ought to be yours".
I thanked him with all my heart and in a few minutes more got down at Lawrence station then as
