The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making. And mournfully bewailing Her throat in tunes expresseth. What grief her breast oppresseth For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. Oh Philomela fair, O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE JOBHOLDER by DAVID IGNATOW THE PRETTY MILKMAID by MOTHER GOOSE ON THE PASSING OF THE LAST FIRE HORSE FROM MANHATTAN ISLAND by KENNETH SLADE ALLING AN EPITAPH, ON A FOOLISH BOASTER by PHILIP AYRES THE PASSING YEAR by MATHILDE BLIND THE ATAVISTIC MAID by BERTON BRALEY |