The Nightingale

O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray,
Most musical, most mournful, dost thou wail
0, how I long to hear thy voice, and weigh
Thy music in mine ears: for thee,
Singing amongst the boughs,
Travelling, almost, to the unseen sky;
O for that filling, trembling song!
But thou dost wane, now, and I cannot,
O Nightingale,
Hear thee, know thee, feel thee in my heart.

– Laurence Binyon

• Laurence Binyon