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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
THE NIGHTINGALE.
1
Tired with my long day's travelAt night I laid my head
Upon the grass and gravel
Of old Cephysus' bed.
Yet Sleep her steps susurrent
Bent towards me but to fly,
Scared back o'er that slow current
By a Nightingale hard by.
2
‘Alas, thou little mourner!Remit that song of woe;
Sad Philomela's scorner
Was slain long years ago:
'Tis now a time-worn fable:
One half was never true;
Then why for ever babble
Of woes ne'er felt by you?’
62
3
The little bird persisted:Like hers my grief was vain:
As oft as e'er she listed
She poured the same sad strain.
Though none might share her weeping,
Though none was nigh to praise,
All night she ceased not, steeping
In melody the sprays.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |