No voice is heard along the city--street <br />Of men, nor tramp of horse; but the night long <br />Yon nightingale fills all the air with song. <br />I am a stranger here, but no less sweet <br />Those heavenly notes, my raptured hearing greet, <br />Than when I stood my native dales among, <br />And the sweet blossom of the hawthorn flung <br />Its incense on my path, and at my feet <br />The glow--worm glistened. Bird of restless joy! <br />When first I learned to love this peopled earth, <br />I past beside thy haunts, a roving boy, <br />And thou wert mingled in my spirit's mirth; <br />But now I am spell--fastened by thy strain, <br />And oft return to listen once again.<br /><br />Henry Alford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxviiiwritten-at-frankfort/
