The Nightingale Near The House

Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:
It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond
Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond
    Stares. And you sing, you sing.

That star-enchanted song falls through the air
From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,
Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;
    And all the night you sing.

My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee
As all night long I listen, and my brain
Receives your song, then loses it again
    In moonlight on the lawn.

Now is your voice a marble high and white,
Then like a mist on fields of paradise,
Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,
    Then breaks, and it is dawn.

Harold Monro

Harold Edward Monro was a British poet, born on March 14, 1879, in Brussels, Belgium. He is best known for being the proprietor of the Poetry Bookshop in London, which helped many poets get published. His work often portrayed urban and modern life. Monro was also an editor and publisher, significantly contributing to the early 20th-century literary scene. He died on March 16, 1932, in London.

Harold Monro

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Harold Monro, Simple Poetry

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No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
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But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
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Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Songs On The Voices Of Birds. The Nightingale Heard By The Unsatisfied Heart.

    When in a May-day hush
    Chanteth the Missel-thrush
The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous stirs;
    When Robin-redbreast sings,
    We think on budding springs,
And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers.

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    In a wisp of fancies fleet,
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies.

    Her central thought full well
    Thou hast the wit to tell,
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    To set in a cadence bright,
And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did know.

    I have no nest as thou,
 ...

Jean Ingelow

Airy Tongues

I.

I hear a song the wet leaves lisp
When Morn comes down the woodland way;
And misty as a thistle-wisp
Her gown gleams windy gray;
A song, that seems to say,
"Awake! 'tis day!"

I hear a sigh, when Day sits down
Beside the sunlight-lulled lagoon;
While on her glistening hair and gown
The rose of rest is strewn;
A sigh, that seems to croon,
"Come sleep! 'tis noon!"

I hear a whisper, when the stars,
Upon some evening-purpled height,
Crown the dead Day with nenuphars
Of dreamy gold and white;
A voice, that seems t' invite,
"Come love! 'tis night!"


II.

Before the rathe song-sparrow sings
Among the hawtrees in the lane,
And to the wind the locust flings
Its early clusters fresh with rain;
B...

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The Nightingale

When the moon a golden-pale
Lustre on my casement flings,
An enchanted nightingale
In the haunted silence sings.

Strange the song, its wondrous words
Taken from the primal tongue,
Known to men, and beasts, and birds,
When the care-worn world was young

Listening low, I hear the stars
Through her strains move solemnly,
And on lonesome banks and bars
Hear the sobbing of the sea.

And my memory dimly gropes
Hints to gather from her song
Of forgotten fears and hopes,
Joys and griefs forgotten long.

And I feel once more the strife
Of a passion, fierce and grand,
That, in some long-vanished life,
Held my soul at its command.

Ah, my Love, in robes of white
Standing by a moonlit sea,
Like a lily of the night,

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The dew is bright upon the hill,
And bright the blossoms overhead,
But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
The little Attic song is still.

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By the soft breathing of the gale,
And in the almond-scented vale
The lonely nightingale is heard.

The day will make thee silent soon,
O nightingale sing on for love!
While yet upon the shadowy grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn
In sea-green vest the morning steals,
And to love's frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn

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