Once in a dress-circle, weary with discussing many a query
Of the palmy days of acting, and of quaint dramatic lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at a chamber-door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “outside the dress-circle door,
Wants a seat, and nothing more.”
Then the flapping—sad, uncertain, rustling of the painted curtain—
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic visions never felt before
Of the coming Macbeth’s greeting, wondering if his repeating
Would delight me; while the visitor kept tapping at the door,