With Glass Like A Bull'S-Eye, And Shutters Of Green, Down On The Cobbles Lives Mrs. Macqueen, At Six She Rises; At Nine You See Her Candle Shine Out In The Linden Tree: And At Half-Past Nine Not A Sound Is Nigh But The Bright Moon'S Creeping Across The Sky; Or A Far Dog Baying; Or A Twittering Bird In Its Drowsy Nest, In The Darkness Stirred; Or Like The Roar Of A Distant Sea A Long-Drawn S-S-Sh In The Linden Tree.