Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours <br />Of winters past or coming, void of care, <br />Well pleased with delights which present are, <br />(Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers) <br />To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers <br />Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, <br />And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare: <br />A stain to human sense in sin that lours, <br />What soul can be so sick which by thy songs <br />(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven <br />Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, <br />And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? <br />Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise <br />To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.<br /><br />William Drummond (of Hawthornden)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-nightingale-5/
