Page:Carroll - Phantasmagoria and other poems (1869).djvu/113

Rh  When, for the tumult of the street, Is heard the engine's stifled beat, The velvet tread of porters' feet.

With glance that ever sought the ground, She moved her lips without a sound, And every now and then she frowned.

He gazed upon the sleeping sea, And joyed in its tranquillity, And in that silence dead, but she

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 lent, But could not fathom what she meant: She was not deep, nor eloquent.