O Nightingale, my heart, 
How sad thou art ! 
How heavy is thy wing, 
Desperately whirred that thy throat may fling 
Song to the tingling silences remote ! 

Thine eye, whose ruddy spark 
Burned fiery of late, 
How dead and dark ! 
Why so soon didst thou sing, 
And with such turbulence of love and hate ? 

Learn that there is no singing yet can bring 
The expected dawn more near ; 
And thou art spent already, though the night 
Scarce has begun;
What voice, what eyes, wilt thou have for the light 
When that light shall appear, 
And O what wings to bear thee t'ward the sun ?