O nightingale that on yon blooming spray <br />Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, <br />Thou with fresh hopes the Lover’s heart dost fill, <br />While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. <br />Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day, <br />First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill, <br />Portend success in love. O if Jove’s will <br />Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, <br />Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate <br />Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; <br />As thou from year to year hast sung too late <br />For my relief, yet had’st no reason why. <br />Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, <br />Both them I serve, and of their train am I.<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-to-the-nightingale/
