thou leanest to the shell of night,

dear lady, a divining ear.

in that soft choiring of delight

what sound hath made thy heart to fear?

seemed it of rivers rushing forth

from 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 us

at ghosting hour conjurable—

and all for some strange name he read

in purchas or in holinshed.