Classic Poem

I

O N Maidenhead Thicket the moonlight of May
Throws magical beauty unknown to the day:
By the old turnpike gate where the bird-catcher dwells,
The note of a nightingale gurgles and swells.
Deep hid in the leafage of slumbering elms
She sings the sad song of the Daulian realms—
Of the web that was woven, the child that was slain,
The flight into æther sore stricken with pain.
Though nothing the bird-catcher knows about Greek,
He fancies that nightingale's song is unique:
And I said when the passionate music I heard—
‘Don't let him catch you, beautiful bird!’

II

Not very far off, at the very same hour,
Two loiter together 'neath chestnuts in flower:
Faint blossoms of night give an odour divine,
Cool breath of the west is more joyous than wine.
He tells her that wondrous old story we know
(How sweet 'twas to murmur it, lustrums ago!)
And she, with the music of anguish above,
Drinks perilous draughts of the vintage of love.
Does he know, whose warm breath is so close to her cheek,
More of love than the bird-catcher knows about Greek?
If not, it were time just to whisper a word:
‘Don't let him catch you, beautiful bird!’