TO A NIGHTINGALE 155 



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 



Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 

 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 



Wherewith the seasonable month endows 

 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 

 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 

 Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 



And mid-May's eldest child, 

 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 



The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 



Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 



I have been half in love with easeful Death, 

 Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 



To take into the air my quiet breath ; 

 Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 

 To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 

 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 



In such an ecstasy ! 



Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain 

 To thy high requiem become a sod. 



Thou wast not bom 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 : 

 Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 



Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for 



home, 

 She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 



The same that oft-times hath 

 Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 

 Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 



