So catching my breath for a mighty shout,
I felt my life with my breath go out.
Yet only a whisper hissed forth from my lips,
Breaking between my chattering teeth in strangled shivering lisps
As I wailed to the dimness within;
“O! ye who haunt these fœtid bowers, cold Winter has gone and Spring
Hath come with her flowers.”
But all that I heard in answer, up the ebon polished stair
Was the Deathless chant of the Marids; the Jinn with the shimmering hair;
That woeful hymn of the Marids—that canticle of despair.