C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Nightingale

By John Addington Symonds (1840–1893)

I WENT a-roaming through the woods alone,

And heard the nightingale that made her moan.

Hard task it were to tell how dewy-still

Were flowers and ferns and foliage in the rays

Of Hesper, white amid the daffodil

Of twilight flecked with faintest chrysoprase;

And all the while, embowered in leafy bays,

The bird prolonged her sharp soul-thrilling tone.

I went a-roaming through the woods alone,

And heard the nightingale that made her moan.

But as I stood and listened, on the air

Arose another voice, more clear and keen,

That startled silence with a sweet despair,

And stilled the bird beneath her leafy screen:

The star of Love, those lattice boughs between,

Grew large and leaned to listen from his zone.

I went a-roaming through the woods alone,

And heard the nightingale that made her moan.

The voice, methought, was neither man’s nor boy’s,

Nor bird’s nor woman’s, but all these in one:

In Paradise perchance such perfect noise

Resounds from angel choirs in unison,

Chanting with cherubim their antiphon

To Christ and Mary on the sapphire throne.

I went a-roaming through the woods alone,

And heard the nightingale that made her moan.

Then down the forest aisles there came a boy,

Unearthly pale, with passion in his eyes;

Who sang a song whereof the sound was joy,

But all the burden was of love that dies

And death that lives,—a song of sobs and sighs,

A wild swan’s note of Death and Love in one.

I went a-roaming through the woods alone,

And heard the nightingale that made her moan.

Love burned within his luminous eyes, and Death

Had made his fluting voice so keen and high,

The wild wood trembled as he passed beneath,

With throbbing throat singing, Love-led, to die;

Then all was hushed, till in the thicket nigh

The bird resumed her sharp soul-thrilling tone.

I went a-roaming through the woods alone,

And heard the nightingale that made her moan.

But in my heart and in my brain the cry,

The wail, the dirge, the dirge of Death and Love,

Still throbs and throbs, flute-like, and will not die,

Piercing and clear the night-bird’s tune above,—

The aching, anguished wild swan’s note, whereof

The sweet sad flower of song was overblown.

I went a-roaming through the woods alone,

And heard the nightingale that made her moan.

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