When summer suns have dried the rill, She reached a full stop, and was still. Dead calm succeeded to the fuss, As when the loaded omnibus Has reached the railway terminus: When, for the tumult of the street, Is heard the engine's stifled beat, The velvet tread of porters' feet. With glance that ever sought the ground, She moved her lips without a sound, And every now and then she frowned. He gazed upon the sleeping sea, And joyed in its tranquillity, And in that silence dead, but she To muse a little space did seem, Then, like the echo of a dream, Harked back upon her threadbare theme. Still an attentive ear he lent But could not fathom what she meant: She was not deep, nor eloquent. He marked the ripple on the sand: 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.