The Nightingale

Hark in the trees the low-voiced nightingale

Has slain the silence with a jubilant cry;

How clear in the hushed night, yet voluble

And various as sweet water wavering by,

    That murmurs in a channel small

    Beneath a low grey wall,

    Then sings amid the fitful rye.

    O sweet grave Siren of the night,

        Astarte’s eremite,

Thou feedest every leaf with solemn glee.

Lo, the night-winds sigh happier, being chid by thee.

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