'When to--the ses--sions of--sweet si--lent thought,'

chanted the sonnet and waves together.

'O double it, double it, can't you?' said the man impatiently, 'this
way:--

"When to the ses--sions of sweet si--lent thought, te-tum,
--te-tum, te-tum."

But no; the waves and the lines persisted in their own idea, and the
listener finally became conscious of a third element against him,
another sound which kept time with the obstinate two and encouraged
them in obstinacy,--the dip of light oars somewhere out in the gray
mist.

'When to--the ses--sions of--sweet si--lent thought,
I sum--mon up--remem--brance of--things past,'

chanted the sonnet and the waves and the oars together, and went duly
on, sighing the lack of many things they sought away down to that
'dear friend' who in some unexplained way made all their 'sorrows
end.' Even then, while peering through the fog and wondering where and
what was this spirit boat that one could hear but not see, Waring
found time to make his usual objections. 'This summoning up
remembrance of things past, sighing the lack, weeping afresh, and so
forth, is all very well,' he remarked to himself, 'we all do it. But
that friend who sweeps in at the death with his opportune dose of
comfort is a poetical myth whom I, for one, have never yet met.'