78 • Nightingales 



Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

 I have been half in love writh easeful Death, 

 Caird him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

 To take into the air my quiet breath ; 

 Nowr more than ever seems it rich to die. 

 To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 

 While thou are 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 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 by clown : 



Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 



Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 



She stood in tears am'd the alien corn ; 



The same that oft-times hath 



Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 



Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."" 



If I was kept awake, it was well worth it, and 

 I often rose from my bed before finally falling to 

 sleep to enjoy that beautiful song for a little while 

 longer, as I stood at the window and looked beyond 

 the garden boundary across the water-meadows, from 

 which the notes of rival nightingales came floating 

 towards me, varied by an occasional outburst of chatter 

 from some cheeky little sedge warbler amongst the 

 rushes by the river, or even the mellow tones of a 

 cuckoo. And in the early morning as the dawn began 

 to break, the nightingale, having rested for an hour 

 or so, had recommenced his song, which in spite of a 

 united and increasing chorus of other birds, still rang 

 clearly out. 



