“Her speech,” he said, “hath caused this pain.
Easier I count it to explain
The jargon of the howling main,
“Or, stretched beside some babbling brook,
To con, with inexpressive look,
An unintelligible book.”
Low spake the voice within his head,
In words imagined more than said,
Soundless as ghost’s intended tread:
“If thou art duller than before,
Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?
Why not endure, expecting more?”
“Rather than that,” he groaned aghast,
“I’d writhe in depths of cavern vast,
Some loathly vampire’s rich repast.”
“’Twere hard,” it answered, “themes immense
To coop within the narrow fence
That rings thy scant intelligence.”
“Not so,” he urged, “nor once alone:
But there was something in her tone
That chilled me to the very bone.
“Her style was anything but clear,
And most unpleasantly severe;
Her epithets were very queer.