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.