12 When one becomes the butt of rumour, It’s hard to bear (as you well know) When men of reason and good humour Perceive you as a freak on show, Or as a sad and raving creature, A monster of Satanic feature, Or even Demon of my pen!* Eugene (to speak of him again), Who’d killed his friend for satisfaction, Who in an aimless, idle fix Had reached the age of twenty-six, Annoyed with leisure and inaction, Without position, work, or wife— Could find no purpose for his life.
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