Oscar Wilde (1854–1900). Poems. 1881.
46. By the Arno
T
Grows crimson in the dawning light,
Though the grey shadows of the night
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.
And bright the blossoms overhead,
But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
The little Attic song is still.
By the soft breathing of the gale,
And in the almond-scented vale
The lonely nightingale is heard.
O nightingale sing on for love!
While yet upon the shadowy grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.
In sea-green mist the morning steals,
And to love’s frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn
To grasp and slay the shuddering night,
All careless of my heart’s delight,
Or if the nightingale should die.