To a Nightingale

Oh, thou that on a dewy spray
Didst sing thy heart away,
And pouring forth thy joyous soul,
Didst make the midnight whole
And sweet with rapturous melody,
For all the world to hear;
What dost thou know of sorrow, grief,
Or aught of human fear?

Thy song is of the summer breeze,
Of flowers and of trees,
Of sunlit fields and flowing streams,
Of joys and happy dreams;
No hint of pain, no touch of woe,
Within thy liquid note,
But pure delight, a ceaseless flow,
From thy ecstatic throat.

Ah, would that I could share thy bliss,
And know thy simple heart,
And sing with thee a song like this,
And play a joyous part;
But human hearts are frail and weak,
And prone to doubt and fear,
And shadows gather, e'en when we speak
Of all we hold most dear.