Frances Anne Kemble (1809–1893)

HOW passing sad! Listen, it sings again!

Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs

The livelong night dost chant that wondrous strain,

Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows

Out of the clouds to hear thee? Who shall say,

Thou lone one, that thy melody is gay?

Let him come listen now to that one note

That thou art pouring o’er and o’er again

Through the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat,

With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain.

I prithee cease thy song! for from my heart

Thou hast made memory’s bitter waters start,

And filled my weary eyes with the soul’s rain.