To Jenny Lind


I cannot touch the harp again
And sing another idle Lay
To cool a maddening burning brain
And drive the midnight fiend away
Music own sister to the soul
Bids roses bloom on cheeks all pale
And sweet her joys and sorrows roll
When sings the Sweedish Nightingale


The Lilies of the field are fair
Nought on their whiteness emulates
Nature in pleasure says they are
Words cannot musics charms create
Nor musings of an idle lay
With music magic e'er prevail
Voice of the soul they steal away
From the young Sweedish Nightingale


I cannot touch the harp again
No chords will vibrate on the string
Like broken flowers upon the plain
My heart e'en withers while I sing
Eolian harps have witching tones
On morning or the evening gale
No melody their music owns
As sings the Sweedish Nightingale.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.