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Henry Van Dyke - The Veery
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THE MOONBEAMS over Arno’s vale in silver flood were pouring,  
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.  
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie;  
I longed to hear a simpler strain,—the wood-notes of the veery.  
  
The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;          
It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;  
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;  
I only know one song more sweet,—the vespers of the veery.  
  
In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,  
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:          
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,  
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.  
  
But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;  
New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing:  
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,          
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.
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