not song, not wail, not hurt,

but just a call summons us

with its simple top-note

and soft fall;

not to some rarer heaven

of lilies over-tall,

nor tuberose set against

some sun-lit wall,

but to a gracious

cedar-palace hall;

not marble set with purple

hung with roses and tall

sweet lilies—such

as the nightingale

would summon for us

with her wail—

(surely only unhappiness

could thrill

such a rich madrigal!)

not she, the nightingale

 Prev. P 35/71 next