The Poet and the Bird.
A Fable.
Said a people to a poet—"Go out from among us straightway!
While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine.
There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateway,
Makes fitter music to our ear, than any song of thine!"
While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine.
There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateway,
Makes fitter music to our ear, than any song of thine!"
The poet went out weeping—the nightingale ceased chanting;
"Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness clone?"
"I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting,
Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under sun."
"Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness clone?"
"I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting,
Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under sun."
The poet went out weeping,—and died abroad, bereft there—
The bird flew to his grave and died amid a thousand wails!—
Tet, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there
Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's!
The bird flew to his grave and died amid a thousand wails!—
Tet, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there
Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's!