The Nightingale

When the moon a golden-pale     Lustre on my casement flings,     An enchanted nightingale     In the haunted silence sings.     Strange the song, its wondrous words     Taken from the primal tongue,     Known to men, and beasts, and birds,     When the care-worn world was young     Listening low, I hear the stars     Through her strains move solemnly,     And on lonesome banks and bars     Hear the sobbing of the sea.     And my memory dimly gropes     Hints to gather from her song     Of forgotten fears and hopes,     Joys and griefs forgotten long.     And I feel once more the strife     Of a passion, fierce and grand,     That, in some long-vanished life,     Held my soul at its command.     Ah, my Love, in robes of white     Standing by a moonlit sea,     Like a lily of the night,     Hast thou quite forgotten me?     Dost thou never dream at whiles     Of that silent, templed vale,     And the dim wood in whose aisles     Sang a secret nightingale?     Whither hast thou gone? What star     Holds thy spirit pure and fine?     In this world below there are     None like thee: and thou wert mine!     For a season all things last,     Love and Joy, and Life and Death;     Thou art portion of my past,     I of thine, whilst Time draws breath.     Fades the moonlight golden-pale,     And the bird has ceased to sing,     Ah, it was no nightingale,     But my heart, remembering.