Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/136



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.