O NIGHTINGALE, the poet's bird, A kinsman dear thou art, Who never sings so well as when The rose-thorns bruise his heart. But since thy agony can make A listening world so blest, Be sure it cares but little for Thy wounded, bleeding breast! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ARCHIMEDES LAST FORAY by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET OVID, OLD BUDDY, I WOULD DISCOURSE WITH YOU A WHILE by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE IMPOSSIBLE INDISPENSIBILITY OF THE ARS POETICA by HAYDEN CARRUTH FOR OUR BETTER GRACES by JAMES GALVIN DOMESTIC SONG by DAVID IGNATOW |