It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whispered word;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure.
Which follows the decline of day,
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
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Just then return'd at shut of evening flowers.
Just then return'd at shut of evening flowers.
Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows,
Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate,
A soothing charm read more
Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows,
Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate,
A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throws
And skies, with notes well tuned to her and state.
The nightingale appear'd the first,
And as her melody she sang,
The apple into blossom burst,
read more
The nightingale appear'd the first,
And as her melody she sang,
The apple into blossom burst,
To life the grass and violets sprang.
I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers
Round the day's dead sanctities.
read more
I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers
Round the day's dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning's eyes.
Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
Like a wedding-song all-melting
Sings the nightingale, the dear one.
Like a wedding-song all-melting
Sings the nightingale, the dear one.
When day is done, and clouds are low,
And flowers are honey-dew,
And Hesper's lamp begins to read more
When day is done, and clouds are low,
And flowers are honey-dew,
And Hesper's lamp begins to glow
Along the western blue;
And homeward wing the turtle-doves,
Then comes the hour the poet loves.
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The read more
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many thing by season seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection!
For as nightingales do upon glow-worms feed,
So poets live upon the living light.
For as nightingales do upon glow-worms feed,
So poets live upon the living light.
