In the Night by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Sometimes at night, when I sit and write, / I hear the strangest things,- / As my brain grows hot with burning thought, / That struggles for form and wings, / I can hear the beat of my swift blood's feet, / As it speeds with a rush and a whir / From heart to brain and back again, / Like a race-horse under the spur.

With my soul's fine ear I listen and hear / The tender Silence speak, / As it leans on the breast of Night to rest, / And presses his dusky cheek. / And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns / For something that is kin; / And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss, / As it folds and fondles Sin.