And the soul of the wine they’re drinking
Seems into their own souls poured.
And, “Huzza for our guest, King Irving;”
From a hundred hearty throats,
And the lovingly lengthened greeting,
Like a chorused chime, up floats—
When more swift than an earthly echo
Bursts a sound over guest and hosts,
Strangely shrill, yet faint and far off,—
“Way there for the coming ghosts!”