XXIX

4 0 00

XXIX

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon

Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set

A table, and, half-anguish’d, threw thereon

A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:⁠—

O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!

The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,

The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,

Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:⁠—

The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.