I heard you singing in the grove,
My Lady Nightingale;
The thirsty leaves were drinking dew,
And all the sky was pale.
A silence — clear as bells of peace
Your song thrilled on the air,
Each liquid note a thing of joy,
And sweet beyond compare.
Not all of joy — a haunting strain
Of sorrow and of tears,
A note of grief which seemed to voice
The sadness of the years.
‘ Twas pure,‘ twas clear,‘ twas wondrous sweet,
My Lady Nightingale,
Yet subtly sad, the song you sang
When all the sky was pale.