Classic Poem

WHEREIN THE NIGHTINGALE'S MELODY REMINDS HIM OF HIS OWN HAPLESS PLIGHT

That nightingale, who weeps so sweetly, grieves
Perhaps for his lost young or his loved mate,
Drowning the sky with sweetness, and the late
Dark violet valleys and the trembling leaves;
And all night long he in his sorrow cleaves
To me and mine, recalling my harsh fate —
But I have myself to commiserate
Alone, who deemed an angel safe from thieves.
O what an easy dupe the trusting fool!
Who ever would have thought those lamps more bright
Than any sun could go out like a light
Smothered in dust? Now in a bitter school
Fate teaches me the lesson all too sure:
No joy can please and pleasing can endure!