O Nightingale my heart How sad thou art! How heavy is thy wing, Desperately whirr'd that thy throat may fling Song to the tingling silences remote! Thine eye whose ruddy spark Burned fiery of late,...
Come, ye sorrowful, and steep Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep: For our kisses lightlier run Than the traceries of the sun By the lolling water cast...