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.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-serenade-3/
