MY LADY NIGHTINGALE.

I heard you singing in the grove,

My Lady Nightingale;

The thirsty leaves were drinking dew,

And all the sky was pale.

A silence — clear as bells of peace

Your song thrilled on the air,

Each liquid note a thing of joy,

And sweet beyond compare.

Not all of joy — a haunting strain

Of sorrow and of tears,

A note of grief which seemed to voice

The sadness of the years.

‘ Twas pure,‘ twas clear,‘ twas wondrous sweet,

My Lady Nightingale,

Yet subtly sad, the song you sang

When all the sky was pale.