Listen! from the forest boughs 
The voice-like angel of the spring 
Utters his soft vows 
To the proud rose blossoming. 
And now beneath thy lattice dear! 
I am like the bird complaining: 
Thou above (I fear) 
Like the rose disdaining. 
From her chamber in the skies 
Shouts the lark at break of morning, 
And when day-light flies 
Comes the raven’s warning. 
This of gloom and that of mirth 
In their mystic numbers tell; 
But thoughts of sweeter birth 
Teacheth the nightingale. 
Barry Cornwall, 
