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Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I read more
Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown.
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.
'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
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'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music!
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 crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The read more
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many thing by season seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection!
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.
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.
The angel of spring, the mellow-throated nightingale.
The angel of spring, the mellow-throated nightingale.
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth.
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth.
