Thou leanest to the shell of night, 
Dear lady, a divining ear. 
In that soft choiring of delight 
What sound hath made thy heart to fear? 
Seemed it of rivers rushing forth 
From the grey deserts of the north? 

That mood of thine 
Is his, if thou but scan it well, 
Who a mad tale bequeaths to us 
At ghosting hour conjurable -- - 
And all for some strange name he read 
In Purchas or in Holinshed.