The Nightingale

I.

The Nightingale is silent, she goes home, And when she sleeps she sings not. The pale star Hangs in the darkling sky as a lone thought, And the moon wanes like a memory.

II.
Yet the whirling wind is a perpetual moan, The darkness is a shroud of ancient sins; In the forest deep the faint echo is clear— Like the voice of God when man’s work begins.

III.
But lo! the silver spoke of dawn Pales the stars and quells the shadowy ill, And the Nightingale, from her far retreat, Sings the hymn of the renewed world’s goodwill.

• Robert Buchanan