At the barren heart of midnight, <br />When the shadow shuts and opens <br />As the loud flames pulse and flutter, <br />I can hear a cistern leaking. <br /> <br />Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm, <br />Rough, unequal, half-melodious, <br />Like the measures aped from nature <br />In the infancy of music; <br /> <br />Like the buzzing of an insect, <br />Still, irrational, persistent . . . <br />I must listen, listen, listen <br />In a passion of attention; <br /> <br />Till it taps upon my heartstrings, <br />And my very life goes dripping, <br />Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping, <br />In the drip-drop of the cistern.<br /><br />William Ernest Henley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nocturn/
