THE nightingale, the rose's lover, Through night and day sings songs above her, But silent in her dream of innocence She hears the strain but catches not the sense. So oft a poet, singing to his lyre, Pours in a maiden's ear his heart's desire; His fiery passion throbs through every tone, But to the gentle maid it rests unknown. For whom, she asks, is meant this song of his, And wherefore sings he songs as sad as this? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BIRDS OF VIETNAM by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE SMALLISH SON by HAYDEN CARRUTH FOREST FLOWERS by ROBERT FROST ON GOING UNNOTICED by ROBERT FROST ODE TO THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY by SIDNEY LANIER STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 5. MARYLAND by CLARENCE MAJOR |