Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, <br />And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom <br />Ye learn your song: <br />Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, <br />Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air <br />Bloom the year long! <br /> <br />Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: <br />Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, <br />A throe of the heart, <br />Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, <br />No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, <br />For all our art. <br /> <br />Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men <br />We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, <br />As night is withdrawn <br />From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, <br />Dream, while the innumerable choir of day <br />Welcome the dawn.<br /><br />Robert Seymour Bridges<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nightingales/
