XXVII — NOCTURN

At the barren heart of midnight,

When the shadow shuts and opens

As the loud flames pulse and flutter,

I can hear a cistern leaking.

Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm,

Rough, unequal, half-melodious,

Like the measures aped from nature

In the infancy of music;

Like the buzzing of an insect,

Still, irrational, persistent...

I must listen, listen, listen

In a passion of attention;

Till it taps upon my heartstrings,

And my very life goes dripping,

Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping,

In the drip-drop of the cistern.