MURDER will out; but this—this was my friend ;
And so he keeps it darker than the grave.
Look at the great grey waves that swirl and sweep
And fly, hounded and hounding on for ever;
Just as my fancies, poor Tom's fancies, mad
Tom's fancies, ha, ha, ha, in a wild crowd
Crash through his brain, for ever and for ever.
Oh, yes, yes, yes; but then you know, far down
Beneath all that, in darkness and in silence,
Far down, far down, a secret of the sea
Lies grinning at the monstrous fish that flit
Like strange Satanic butterflies through hell
Or hideous thoughts across a madman's mind,
Or—no, no, no, my God I not that, not that!
Wild thoughts—they come and go and come again,
Goggling at that nightmare in the gloom,
Far down, far down, where no sound ever comes
And no man's eye can peer, far down, far down.
You would not think how softly it can smile,
That secret; how it waits and waits and waits,
VOL. CLXXVI. —NO, MLXV.