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.