Poets: A B . C D . E F . G H . I J . K L . M N . O P . Q R . S T . U V . W X . Y Z | Home | Other

  The Nightingale

AS IT fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

With a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap and birds did sing,

Trees did grow and plants did spring;

Every thing did banish moan

Save the Nightingale alone.

She, poor bird, as all forlorn,

Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,

And there sung the dolefull'st ditty

That to hear it was great pity.

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;

Tereu, tereu, by and by:

That to hear her so complain

Scarce I could from tears refrain;

For her griefs so lively shown

Made me think upon mine own.

--Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,

None takes pith on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,

Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;

King pandion, he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:

All thy fellow birds do sing

Careless of thy sorrowing:

Even so, poor bird, like thee

None alive will pity me.

Richard Barnfield

Poets' Corner . The Other Pages . E-mail

©2009 Poets' Corner Editorial Staff, All Rights Reserved Worldwide
(WebCounter)