Shelley？ Oh， yes， I saw him often then，
The old man said. A dry smile creased1 his face
With many wrinkles. That's a great poem， now！
That one of Browning's！ Shelley？ Shelley plain？
The time that I remember best is this
A thin mire2 crept along the rutted ways，
And all the trees were harried3 by cold rain
That drove a moment fiercely and then ceased，
Falling so slow it hung like a grey mist
Over the school. The walks were like blurred4 glass.
The buildings reeked5 with vapor6， black and harsh
Against the deepening darkness of the sky；
And each lamp was a hazy7 yellow moon，
Filling the space about with golden motes8，
And making all things larger than they were.
One yellow halo hung above a door，
That gave on a black passage. Round about
Struggled a howling crowd of boys， pell-mell，
Pushing and jostling like a stormy sea，
With shouting faces， turned a pasty white
By the strange light， for foam9. They all had clods，
Or slimy balls of mud. A few gripped stones.
And there， his back against the battered10 door，
His pile of books scattered11 about his feet，
Stood Shelley while two others held him fast，
And the clods beat upon him. `Shelley！ Shelley！'
The high shouts rang through all the corridors，
`Shelley！ Mad Shelley！ Come along and help！'
And all the crowd dug madly at the earth，
Scratching and clawing at the streaming mud，
And fouled12 each other and themselves. And still
Shelley stood up. His eyes were like a flame
Set in some white， still room； for all his face
Was white， a whiteness like no human color，
But white and dreadful as consuming fire.
His hands shook now and then， like slender cords
Which bear too heavy weights. He did not speak.
So I saw Shelley plain.
And you？ I said.
I？ I threw straighter than the most of them，
And had firm clods. I hit him well， at least
Thrice in the face. He made good sport that night.
