And the gods could ask no more.

If you lingerest when I linger,

If thou tread’st the stones I tread,

Thou wilt stay my spirit’s hunger

And dispel the dreams I dread.

Come thou, love, my own, my only,

Through the battlements of Groan;

Lingering becomes so lonely

When one lingers on one’s own.

I have lingered in the cloisters

Of the Northern wing at night,

As the sky unclasped its oysters

On the midnight pearls of light.

For the long remorseless shadows

Chilled me with exquisite fear.

I have lingered in cold meadows

Through a month of rain, my dear.

Come my Love, my sweet, my Only,

Through the parapets of Groan.

Lingering can be very lonely

When one lingers on one’s own.

In dark alcoves I have lingered

Conscious of dead dynasties.

I have lingered in blue cellars

And in hollow trunks of trees,

Many a traveller through moonlight

Passing by a winding stair

Or a cold and crumbling archway

Has been shocked to see me there.

I have longed for thee, my Only,

Hark! the footsteps of the Groan!

Lingering is so very lonely

When one lingers all alone.

Will you come with me and linger?

And discourse with me of those

Secret things the mystic finger

Points to, but will not disclose?

When I’m all alone, my glory

Always fades because I find

Being lonely drives the splendour

Of my vision from my mind.

Come, oh, come, my own! my Only!

Through the Gormenghast of Groan.

Lingering has become so lonely

As I linger all alone!

Steerpike, after the end of the second verse ceased to pay any attention to the words, for he conceived the idea, now that he realized that the dreadful head was no index to the character, of making his presence known to the poet, and of craving from him at least some food and water if not more. As the voice swayed on he realized that to appear suddenly would be a great shock to the poet, who was so obviously under the impression that he was alone. Yet what else was there to do? To make some sort of preparatory noise of warning before he showed himself occurred to him, and when the last chorus had ended he coughed gently. The effect was electric. The face reverted instantaneously to the soulless and grotesque mask which Steerpike had first seen and which during the recitation had been transformed by a sort of inner beauty. It had coloured, the parchment of the dry skin reddening from the neck upwards like a piece of blotting-paper whose corner has been dipped into red ink.

Out of the black window Steerpike saw, as a result of his cough, the small gimlety eyes peer coldly from a crimson wedge.

He raised himself and bowed to the face across the gully.