Aye, truth you speak, and I the words repeat—
The music at the Opera was sweet.
I've listened to the lowing of the herds,
I've sat enthralled by measures of the birds.
I've heard the lilt that penetrates the vale
When falling twilight spurs the Nightingale
To songs as sweet as ever those that ring
Through Heaven's streets when happy Angels sing.

Yet none of these hath ever seemed so rare
As those sweet measures, tuneful past compare,
That fell upon my listening ears last night,
And filled my soul with rapture and delight.
What Opera was it? Well, I cannot say
If it were Wagner, Verdi, or Bizet—
The music I refer to was the chime
Of Daphne's voice a-babbling all the time.