One day whilst full of burning thought, 
  I faced the Corridor—
The term was young, and I espied
  A new boy very raw.

His face was pale, his brow was sad, 
  His eyes with fearful rolls
Pierced with their dull and leaden glance 
  My sympathetic soul.

His attitude of inward pain 
  Convulsed each thrilling sense;
Aesthetic souls must leap to him—
  He surely is 'intense'.

What ails thee, gentle boy, I cried, 
  Canst thou confide in me,
Is it a mother's care you miss, 
  Your home and family?

He turned on me a frenzied glance, 
  His eye with passion lights;
'I don 't feel quite the thing,' said he, 
  I've just been down to Keyte's.'

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