Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
John Addington Symonds 184093The Nightingale
SymondsI
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Were flowers and ferns and foliage in the rays
Of Hesper, white amid the daffodil
Of twilight fleck’d with faintest chrysoprase;
And all the while, embower’d in leafy bays,
The bird prolong’d her sharp soul-thrilling tone.
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Arose another voice more clear and keen,
That startled silence with a sweet despair,
And still’d the bird beneath her leafy screen:
The star of Love, those lattice-boughs between,
Grew large and lean’d to listen from his zone.
I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Nor bird’s nor woman’s, but all these in one:
In Paradise perchance such perfect noise
Resounds from angel choirs in unison,
Chanting with cherubim their antiphon
To Christ and Mary on the sapphire throne.
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Unearthly pale, with passion in his eyes;
Who sang a song whereof the sound was joy,
But all the burden was of love that dies
And death that lives—a song of sobs and sighs,
A wild swan’s note of Death and Love in one.
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Had made his fluting voice so keen and high,
The wild wood trembled as he pass’d beneath,
With throbbing throat singing, Love-led, to die:
Then all was hush’d, till in the thicket nigh
The bird resum’d her sharp soul-thrilling tone.
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
The wail, the dirge, the dirge of Death and Love,
Still throbs and throbs, flute-like, and will not die,
Piercing and clear the night-bird’s tune above,—
The aching, anguish’d, wild-swan’s note, whereof
The sweet sad flower of song was over-blown.
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.