AVOWAL TO THE NIGHTINGALE

Tho’ thou hast ne'er unpent thy pain's delight

Upon these airs, bird of the poet's love,

Yet must I sing thy singing! For the Night

Has poured her jewels o'er the lap of heaven

As they who hear thee say thou dost above

The wood such ecstasies as were not given

By nestling breasts of Venus to the dove.

Oft have I watched the moon with her fair gold

Still clung to by the tattered mists of day

Arise and look for thee. Then hope grew bold.

And almost I could see how the near laurels

Would tremble with thy trembling: but the sway

Of bards who wreathed thee with unfading chorals

Has held my longing lips from this poor lay.

But take it now. And if the lark — who is

Too high for earth — may vie for praise with thee

In aery rhapsody, yet it is his

To sing of day and joy, while thou of sorrow

And night o'erhovering singest. So thou'lt be

More dear than he — till hearts shall cease to borrow

From grief the healing for life's mystery.