Shall freeze the current of his blood."
Till, like a silent water-mill,
When summer suns have dried the rill,
She reached a full stop, and was still.
To muse a little space did seem,
Then like the echo of a dream,
Harped back upon her threadbare theme.
Still an attentive ear he bent,
But could not fathom what she meant:
She was not deep, nor eloquent.