Xxxvi

We sat late, late--talking of many things. He told me of his grief, and, in the telling, The gist of his tale showed to me, rhymed, like this.

It came, the news, like a fire in the night, That life and its best were done; And there was never so dazed a wretch In the beat of the living sun.

I read the news, and the terms of the news Reeled random round my brain Like the senseless, tedious buzzle and boom Of a bluefly in the pane.

So I went for the news to the house of the news, But the words were left unsaid, For the face of the house was blank with blinds, And I knew that she was dead.