The Growth of Love-Robert Bridges (1844-1930)

The very names of things belov'd are dear,
And sounds will gather beauty from their sense,
And many a face thro' love's long residence
Groweth to fair instead of plain and sere:
But when I say thy name it hath no peer,
And I suppose fortune determined thence
Her dower, that such beauty's excellence
Should have a perfect title for the ear.

     Thus may I think the adopting Muses chose
Their sons by name, knowing none would be heard
Or writ so oft in all the world as those,--Dan Chaucer, mighty Shakespeare, then for third
The classic Milton, and to us arose
Shelley with liquid music in the word.

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              As night is withdrawn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.