THE BOHEMIAN MONK.
I have steeped my soul in knowledge,
Till my weary heart is faint;
And I sit now in my chamber
Gazing sadly at the Saint,
At the Saint whose name I bear,
With the halo round his hair.
Does he look upon me wondering,
That I bartered life for fame.
He, the preacher to the Gentiles,
Would he have me do the same?
Hush, wild thoughts, for I am old,
And my weary heart is cold.
In my youth I yearned for knowledge,
And I quaffed with burning lips
All the learning that the convent
Gives its students in small sips.
Then I went to college old,
And my youth for knowledge sold.
Yes, fame came with laurels crowning
This poor head of mine in youth;
And my name was held in honor,
For my words were words of truth,
And my convent cell was sought
For the learning that I taught.
