To The Nightingale
Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are, (Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers) To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare: A stain to human sense in sin that lours, What soul can be so sick which by thy songs (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.
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"Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours..."
William Henry Drummond's contribution to classic is further solidified by the brilliance found in "To The Nightingale"... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...