My sense as though of hemlock I have drank. the queen moon is on her throne cluster'd around by all her starry fays. But here there is no light. Darkling I listen; and for many a time have been in love with easful death, to take into the air my quiet breath. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell. To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Fled is that music: Do I wake or sleep?