Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:
  So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase a
  Tribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honor. 
  But, from the tumult escaping, ’tis pleasant, of drumming and
       shouting,
  Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood,
  And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetings
  Yield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o’er
  Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters.
    Terrible word, Obligation!  You should not, Eustace, you should not,
  No, you should not have used it.  But, O great Heavens, I repel it! 
  Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate wholly
  Every debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonor,
  Yea, my own heart’s own writing, my soul’s own signature!  Ah, no! 
  I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me. 
  No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things,
  This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing. 
  No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied;
  Bind and engage myself deep;—­and lo, on the following morning
  It was all e’en as before, like losings in games played for nothing. 
  Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performance
  At the first step breaking down in its pitiful role of evasion,
  When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements,
  Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,—­
  Stood unexpecting, unconscious. She spoke not of obligations,
  Knew not of debt,—­ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons.

  X.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  Hang this thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil! 
  Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man’s chamber,
  Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber
       pursuing. 
    What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of Men?  Have compassion! 
  Be favorable, and hear!  Take from me this regal knowledge! 
  Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the field, my brothers,
  Tranquilly, happily lie,—­and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar!

  XI.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio
  Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;
  Tibur and Anio’s tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,
  With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,
  Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—­
  So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I,
  Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,
  Here with Albunea’s home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me.[A]
  Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,
  Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted