Nightingales

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright the fruitful valleys and streams, from whence
Ye learn your song:
 Where are those starry woods?  O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent those streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For al...
Continue reading ...