And once more given to inaction,<br />Empty in spirit and alone,<br />He settled down – to the distraction<br />Of making other minds his own;<br />Collecting books, he stacked a shelfful,<br />Read, read, not even one was helpful:<br />Here, there was dullness, there pretence;<br />This one lacked conscience, that one sense;<br />All were by different shackles fettered;<br />And, past times having lost their hold,<br />The new still raved about the old.<br />Like women, books he now deserted,<br />And mourning taffeta he drew<br />Across the bookshelf’s dusty crew.