By The Arno

The oleander on the wall     Grows crimson in the dawning light,     Though the grey shadows of the night     Lie yet on Florence like a pall.     The dew is bright upon the hill,     And bright the blossoms overhead,     But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,     The little Attic song is still.     Only the leaves are gently stirred     By the soft breathing of the gale,     And in the almond-scented vale     The lonely nightingale is heard.     The day will make thee silent soon,     O nightingale sing on for love!     While yet upon the shadowy grove     Splinter the arrows of the moon.     Before across the silent lawn     In sea-green vest the morning steals,     And to love's frightened eyes reveals     The long white fingers of the dawn     Fast climbing up the eastern sky     To grasp and slay the shuddering night,     All careless of my heart's delight,     Or if the nightingale should die.