Classic Poem

Oh Nightingale, that poet sure was sad
Who called thee Sorrow's bird! Unto my ear,
(Familiar to her mournful voice, as 'twere
A fretful sister's,) thy saddest song seems glad
As the Lark's matin when the trees are clad —
As the blythe Cuckoo when white May is near —
Or any sound that maketh Delight mad,
And drains a passionate heart of its fond tear.
Let the dull-eared deem thee a melancholy
Bird and sorrowful, and misconceive thy song,
Heard in Night's silence the calm woods among:
Heed thine own song, and never note their folly;
But sing to lovers in thy dark delight,
And make them sigh with a mirth too exquisite!