XXVIThou leanest to the shell of night,Dear lady, a divining ear.In that soft choiring of delightWhat sound hath made thy heart to fear?Seemed it of rivers rushing forthFrom the grey deserts of the north?That mood of thine, O timorous,Is his, if thou but scan it well,Who a mad tale bequeaths to usAt ghosting hour conjurable—And all for some strange name he readIn Purchas or in Holinshed.
Thou leanest to the shell of night,Dear lady, a divining ear.In that soft choiring of delightWhat sound hath made thy heart to fear?Seemed it of rivers rushing forthFrom the grey deserts of the north?That mood of thine, O timorous,Is his, if thou but scan it well,Who a mad tale bequeaths to usAt ghosting hour conjurable—And all for some strange name he readIn Purchas or in Holinshed.