My Lady Nightingale.
By Jean Blewett
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.