Nightingales--Robert Bridges (1844-1930)

BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, where-
from
              Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
     Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
               Bloom the year long!

     Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the
          streams:
     Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
              A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
     No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
              For all our art.

     Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
     We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
              As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and brushing boughs
          of May.
     Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
                        Welcome the dawn.