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 As night is withdrawn 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 Bridges<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nightingales-2/
