A POET wrote a song—a tender lay— Of Life that dies, and Love that ne'er is dead. "Life is the setting, Love the jewel," he said; And then he tossed it carelessly away. A south wind passing, heard it softly say: "O save me! save me from this cold, hard bed!" And caught it up, and soaring with it, fled Up, up into the cloudlets dim and gray, Then down again, and laid it on a tree. A little, plain, brown bird came flying by, Sighing: "Ah, Fate has been most harsh to me, I cannot charm the ear or please the eye!" She found the song, and in the moonlight pale She sang it through—it was the nightingale! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON TALK OF PEACE AT THIS TIME by ROBERT FROST MY SENSES DO NOT DECEIVE ME by MARIANNE MOORE I WOULD LIVE IN YOUR LOVE by SARA TEASDALE A MORNING HYMN by CHARLES WESLEY WHEN by SARAH CHAUNCEY WOOLSEY THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND by WILLIAM BARNES |