"Her speech," he said, "hath caused this pain. Easier I count it to explain The jargon of the howling main, "Or, stretched beside some babbling brook, To con, with inexpressive look, An unintelligible book." Low spake the voice within his head, In words imagined more than said, Soundless as ghost's intended tread: "If thou art duller than before, Why quittedst thou the voice of lore? Why not endure, expecting more?" "Rather than that," he groaned aghast, "I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast, Some loathly vampire's rich repast." "'Twere hard," it answered, "themes immense To coop within the narrow fence That rings THY scant intelligence." "Not so," he urged, "nor once alone: But there was something in her tone That chilled me to the very bone. "Her style was anything but clear, And most unpleasantly severe; Her epithets were very queer. "And yet, so grand were her replies, I could not choose but deem her wise; I did not dare to criticise; "Nor did I leave her, till she went So deep in tangled argument That all my powers of thought were spent." A little whisper inly slid, "Yet truth is truth: you know you did." A little wink beneath the lid. And, sickened with excess of dread, Prone to the dust he bent his head, And lay like one three-quarters dead The whisper left him-like a breeze Lost in the depths of leafy trees –