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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,


Although he was my friend; yes, waits and grins,
Knowing the sea shall give up all her dead.
Oh; it is true-murder will out; or else
It sends the murderer mad, mad, mad; and all
The white stars dance in mockery o'er his head;
The mad stars dance and reel until he shrieks
The secret out to stop them. Ah, no, no;
You must not whisper, what I tell you now
Even in a's ear. A friend is all
I need; the wind is móåning for my sake;
Even the wind' is: kind. to-night;
It moans; ahi, n0°; you need not shrink away;
You need not fear me; you are not my friend.

But listen; you must listen; do not speak;
For I have almost caught the thread of it:
Ay; it was this, I think. You know, for years,
For fifteen years we two, each winter, went
In our old half-decked boat- The Queen o' Sheba-
To fish for herring. We were partners; ay,
And friends. Only last year I think it was,
Jack, that's my partner-sat with me astern.
The friendly stars looked down on us and saw
The bellying of the patched old tawny sails,
The heap of herring splashed in a streaming mass
Of molten silver on the moonlit boards,
Jack puffing at his pipe in perfect peace,
And me just whittling at a lump of wood
Making the yacht I promised to bring home
For Jack's own youngster-ten years old that week;
There, there you see a proof what friends we were ;
God knows that's why the knife was in my hand;
God knows, God knows: there's nothing more to say.

The mountains like great shadows lay asleep
Along the coast; and, low down, we could see
The little twinkling light of Jack's own home;
And we said nothing; but I knew his thoughts
Like mine could see her-bending o'er the fire,
With that sweet curve o' the cheek, those deep grey eyes,
The grave red lips, and the soft wave o' the hair,

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