I.
The nightingale rests on a waving bough,
And sings to a pure white rose;
The rose-she lists to her lover’s vow,
And a blush on her pale cheek glows.
For erst the rose was stainless snow,
Till love in her bosom stealing,
Painted her brow with a crimson glow,
The flame of her passion revealing.
The nightingale’s song was happy and gay;
But alas! a change came over his lay!
II.
The flower he ‘loved began to fade!
Could nought the beautiful save?
She drooped,-and the westwind came and laid
Her low in her grassy grave!
Since then all sad is the nightingale’s strain,
Tho’ he tunes to music his sighs;
He sings in sorrow his passionate pain,
He sings his sorrow-and dies!
(Ernest Jones)
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