At Lucca, in my garden, night comes bringing The sweetest nightingales that ever were. I hear them first so very softly singing To make among the leaves a little stir; But later, when the round white moon is flinging The cool gray shadows on each side of her, I hear their songs through all the silence ringing, And dream, awake, of things that never were. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN OLD SWEETHEART [OF MINE] by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY SONNET: 130 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE IF I GROW OLD by ETHEL BERRY ALLEN FOR LACK OF GOLD by ADAM AUSTIN TO THE LARK by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |