Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

And the silken, sad, uncertain

Rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me,—filled me with fantastic
Terrors, never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating
Of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating
Entrance at my chamber door
Some late visitor entreating
Entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more."