THE midnight is not more bewildering To her drowsed eyes, than, to her ears, the sound Of dim, sweet singing voices, interwound With purl of flute and subtle twang of string, Strained through the lattice, where the roses cling And, with their fragrance, waft the notes around Her haunted senses. Thirsting beyond bound Of her slow-yielding dreams, the lilt and swing Of the mysterious, delirious tune, She drains like some strange opiate, with awed eyes Upraised against her casement, where, aswoon, The stars fail from her sight, and up the skies Of alien azure rolls the full round moon Like some vast bubble blown of summer noon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DIVINA COMMEDIA (INTRODUCTORY POEMS): 1 by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE ETERNAL GOODNESS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER IN MEMORIAM by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON LOST THREADS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT POUR QUI SAIT ATTENDRE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT WRITTEN A FEW HOURS BEFORE THE BIRTH OF A CHILD by JANE CAVE |