 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
123
IX.
[O sing, sing, sing, O nightingale, sing on!]
O sing, sing, sing, O nightingale, sing on!None knowing why is it thou dost cry to God,
Thus voiceful 'mid the voiceless all alone
At midnight, with no gentle thing abroad.
Singest at this still hour, that He may hear
Far up thy frequent voice and none but thine?
Or is it sorrow moves thee? dost thou pine
For that earth is not purer, being so fair?
Or lovest thou for itself this quiet air?
Or hath the moon bewitched thee, 'scaped her cloud,
With sad complaint and soon with laughter loud
To mourn by turns and mock thine own despair?—
Whatever bids thee, sing till night is gone:
I only am awake—sweet bird, sing on!
| Poems by James Rhoades | |