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 utter'd 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.