ON the way to Paris, but toward Nemours the white, a bullfinch in the branches sang through the morning-light. On the way to Orleans, to Nemours flying fleet, a swallow in the heart of day sang above the wheat. On the way to Flanders, in twilight's gold and grey, far from Nemours the magpie its treasure hid away. Eastward on to Germany and Russia with harsh cry, far away from this land the crows of evening fly. But in my lovely garden, in Nemours' sheltered vale, all through the starry hours of night chanted the nightingale. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IF THE POETS HAD FEARED THE ADVERTISERS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE PEACE: TO HEAVEN ON A BEETLE by ARISTOPHANES THE WORLD AND THE QUIETEST by MATTHEW ARNOLD ANNIVERSARIUM BAPTISMI (5) by JOSEPH BEAUMONT MASKS by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |