XXIII

Out went the taper as she hurried in;

      Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:

      She closed the door, she panted, all akin

      To spirits of the air, and visions wide:

      No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!

      But to her heart, her heart was voluble,

      Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

      As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell.