... And still, they say, when nights are nearly spent,
And watchmen take their doze, before relief,
He comes to walk upon the battlement,
And all his brow is clouded with a grief.
From end to end, from end to end he goes,
Muttering his maledictions--and a name
Of one who drowned, it seems--though no one knows,
For there's a madness in his words, they claim.