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 "Most musical, most melancholy" bird!
 A melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought!
  In nature there is nothing melancholy.  
 "Most musical, most melancholy" bird!
 A melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought!
  In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
 To the inward ear devout,
  Touched by light, with heavenly warning
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 Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
 To the inward ear devout,
  Touched by light, with heavenly warning
   Your transporting chords ring out.
    Every leaf in every nook,
     Every wave in every brook,
      Chanting with a solemn voice
       Minds us of our better choice. 
 Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly,
 Most musical, most melancholy!
  Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods read more 
 Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly,
 Most musical, most melancholy!
  Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among,
   I woo, to hear thy even-song. 
 Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows,
 Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate,
  A soothing charm read more 
 Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows,
 Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate,
  A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throws
   And skies, with notes well tuned to her and state. 
 For as nightingales do upon glow-worms feed,
 So poets live upon the living light.  
 For as nightingales do upon glow-worms feed,
 So poets live upon the living light. 
 I said to the Nightingale:
 "Hail, all hail!
  Pierce with thy trill the dark,
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 I said to the Nightingale:
 "Hail, all hail!
  Pierce with thy trill the dark,
   Like a glittering music-spark,
    When the earth grows pale and dumb." 
 The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
 The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
  Come, darkness, moonrise, everything
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 The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
 The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
  Come, darkness, moonrise, everything
   That is so silent, sweet, and pale:
    Come, so ye wake the nightingale. 
 Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
 Of winter's past or coming void of care,
  Well read more 
 Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
 Of winter's past or coming void of care,
  Well pleased with delights which present are,
   Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers. 
 To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
 The nightingale is singing from the steep.  
 To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
 The nightingale is singing from the steep.