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...OUTIDANA: A DIRGE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD by WILLIAM DAVENANT THE NEW WORLD; TO THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES by LAURENCE BINYON IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: GOD IS MY WITNESS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A PIPE OF TOBACCO (MR. PHILLIP'S STYLE IMITATED) by ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE THE SOLDIER'S RETURN by ROBERT BURNS |