He was firmly convinced of it as he read the poems over.

Beauty and wonder had departed from him, and as he read the poems he caught himself puzzling as to what he had had in mind when he wrote them.

His audacities of phrase struck him as grotesque, his felicities of expression were monstrosities, and everything was absurd, unreal, and impossible.

He would have burned the "Sea Lyrics" on the spot, had his will been strong enough to set them aflame.

There was the engine-room, but the exertion of carrying them to the furnace was not worth while.