The hours they run, but on Lushington
The papers are pouring still—
And how record for a Phantom Board,
With a merely mortal quill?
Those letters come by messengers dumb—
A hundred thousand a year—
To this room or that, for ghost-clerks to thumb,
And be opened, here and there:
Who registers? None, all; all, some:
Who minutes? Ghost-hands in air.