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A book of Bristol sonnets

By H. D. Rawnsley

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THE NIGHTINGALE IN NIGHTINGALE VALLEY.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


71

THE NIGHTINGALE IN NIGHTINGALE VALLEY.

The laggard Ash has shaken free her plumes;
From yonder slopes the May-tide snow is gone;
And down the cleft, where day the latest shone,
The moony White-Beam all the dusk illumes!
As one, who fearful moves among the tombs,
And hopes for one lost whisper—only one,—
Doubting for joy, I start to hear thy tone,
That of this vale the sovereignty resumes!
Empress! made less, by what a loyal hush,
Thy woes will bubble from thee till the day!
Tuned to thy honey-drip, my tears will gush;
But none will listen as in grief I stray!
Our pain is kin; oh! make thy sorrows mine!
So, listening, I shall lose myself in thine!