The even swaying of her hand Was all that he could understand. He saw in dreams a drawing-room, Where thirteen wretches sat in gloom, Waiting-he thought he knew for whom: He saw them drooping here and there, Each feebly huddled on a chair, In attitudes of blank despair: Oysters were not more mute than they, For all their brains were pumped away, And they had nothing more to say – Save one, who groaned "Three hours are gone!" Who shrieked "We'll wait no longer, John! Tell them to set the dinner on!" The vision passed: the ghosts were fled: He saw once more that woman dread: He heard once more the words she said. He left her, and he turned aside: He sat and watched the coming tide Across the shores so newly dried. He wondered at the waters clear, The breeze that whispered in his ear, The billows heaving far and near, And why he had so long preferred To hang upon her every word: "In truth," he said, "it was absurd."

Third Voice

Not long this transport held its place: Within a little moment's space Quick tears were raining down his face His heart stood still, aghast with fear; A wordless voice, nor far nor near, He seemed to hear and not to hear. "Tears kindle not the doubtful spark. If so, why not? Of this remark The bearings are profoundly dark."