O Nightingale my heart How sad thou art! How heavy is thy wing, Desperately whirrëd that thy throat may fling Song to the tingling silences remote! Thine eye whose ruddy spark Burned fiery of late, How dead and dark! Why so soon didst thou sing, And with such turbulence of love and hate? Learn that there is no singing yet can bring The expected dawn more near; And thou art spent already, though the night Scarce has begun; What voice, what eyes wilt thou have for the light When the light shall appear, And O what wings to bear thee t`ward the Sun?SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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