05.05.2009, 18:52
SINGING BIRDS.
Sweet is thy voice, embowered Nightingale ;
But for thy praise would fail my weaker song ;
Sweet all thine airy kindred, that belong
To Nature's happiest haunts, by field or vale:
And some there are, that in the shadows pale
Of cavernous dim towns, make yearn the throng;
Prisoners are they, and blind, yet seems more strong
The melody of their lives' remembered tale.
Ye are the accepted poets ; wheresoe'er
Your notes have sounded, joy hath thither come ;
As flowers to forest wells serene and clear :
Fame wears ye not, that eats the hearts of some;
Those unambitious accents man doth hear,
And straight the importunate voice of self is dumb.
Sweet is thy voice, embowered Nightingale ;
But for thy praise would fail my weaker song ;
Sweet all thine airy kindred, that belong
To Nature's happiest haunts, by field or vale:
And some there are, that in the shadows pale
Of cavernous dim towns, make yearn the throng;
Prisoners are they, and blind, yet seems more strong
The melody of their lives' remembered tale.
Ye are the accepted poets ; wheresoe'er
Your notes have sounded, joy hath thither come ;
As flowers to forest wells serene and clear :
Fame wears ye not, that eats the hearts of some;
Those unambitious accents man doth hear,
And straight the importunate voice of self is dumb.