Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time
  We followed on, from moon to golden moon;
  From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon,
And the far rose of Pæstum once did climb.
  All the white way beside the girdling blue,
Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime,
  We listened;  ... 

 ... 

And north and north, to where the hedge-rows are,
  That beckon with white looks an endless way;
  Where, through the fair wet silverness of May,
A lamb shines out as sudden as a star,
  Among the cloudy sheep; and green, and pale,
The may-trees reach and glimmer, near or far,
  And the red may-trees wear a shining veil.
    And still, no nightingale!

 ... 

O Nightingale unheard! -- Unheard alone,
  Throughout that woven music of the days
  From the faint sea-rim to the market-place,
And ring of hammers on cathedral stone!
  So be it, better so: that there should fail
For sun-filled ones, one blessèd thing unknown.
  To them, be hid forever, -- and all hail!
    Sing never, Nightingale.

 ... 

Not in Kings' gardens. No; but where there haunt
  The world's forgotten, both of men and birds;
The alleys of no hope and of no words,
The hidings where men reap not, though they plant;
  But toil and thirst -- so dying and so born; -- 
And toil and thirst to gather to their want,
  From the lean waste, beyond the daylight's scorn,
     -- To gather grapes of thorn!
.    .    .    .    .    .