The M.A. Degree. After Wordsworth

It was a phantom of delight     When first it gleamed upon my sight,     A scholarly distinction, sent     To be a student's ornament.     The hood was rich beyond compare,     The gown was a unique affair.     By this, by that my mind was drawn     Then, in my academic dawn;     A dancing shape, an image gay     Before me then was my M.A.     I saw it upon nearer view,     A glory, yet a bother too!      For I perceived that I should be     Involved in much Philosophy     (A branch in which I could but meet     Works that were neither light nor sweet);     In Mathematics, not too good     For human nature's daily food;     And Classics, rendered in the styles     Of Kelly, Bohn, and Dr. Giles.     And now I own, with some small spleen,     A most confounded ass I've been;     The glory seems an empty breath,     And I am nearly bored to death     With Reason, Consciousness, and Will,     And other things beyond my skill,     Discussed in books all darkly planned     And more in number than the sand.     Yet that M.A. still haunts my sight,     With something of its former light.