The midnight is not more bewildering br To her drowsed eyes, than to her ears, the sound br Of dim, sweet singing voices, interwound br With purl of flute and subtle twang of string, br Strained through the lattice, where the roses cling br And, with their fragrance, waft the notes around br Her haunted senses. Thirsting beyond bound br Of her slow-yielding dreams, the lilt and swing br Of the mysterious delirious tune, br She drains like some strange opiate, with awed eyes br Upraised against her casement, where aswoon, br The stars fail from her sight, and up the skies br Of alien azure rolls the full round moon br Like some vast bubble blown of summer noon.