At Lucca, in my garden, night comes bringing The sweetest nightingales that ever were. I hear them first so very softly singing To make among the leaves a little stir; But later, when the round white moon is flinging The cool gray shadows on each side of her, I hear their songs through all the silence ringing, And dream, awake, of things that never were. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE, MY LITTLE ONE' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON LITTLE SON by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE AUTHOR'S EPITAPH, MADE BY HIMSELF by WALTER RALEIGH FIREFLY; A SONG by ELIZABETH MADOX ROBERTS NORTHERN CALIFORNIA NIGHT (STRAITS OF CARQUINEZ) by WILLIAM ROSE BENET WEALTH by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |