THEY paused, -- the cripple in the chair, More bent with pain than age; The mother with her lines of care; The many-buttoned page; The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid, With straggling train of three; The Frenchman with his frogs and braid; -- All, curious, paused to see, If possible, the small, dusk bird That from the almond bough Had poured the joyous chant they heard, So suddenly, but now. And one poor POET stopped and thought -- How many a lonely lay That bird had sung ere fortune brought It near the common way, Where the crowd hears the note. And then, -- What birds must sing the song, To whom that hour of listening men Could ne'er in life belong! But 'Art for Art!' the Poet said, ''Tis still the Nightingale, That sings where no men's feet will tread, And praise and audience fail.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CHILD'S PET by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES SHUT OUT THAT MOON by THOMAS HARDY THE SEARCH (1) by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL PROMETHEUS UNBOUND: THE RED SEA by AESCHYLUS ANIMALS, AND THEIR COUNTRIES by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD ODE TO REMORSE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |