AH, mocking-bird, I did you grievous wrong
Once, when I thought you but a simple bird
Mad over music, noisy, free of word
While yet the fragrant summer nights were young:
There came an hour when Love, revealing, strong,
Stood at my side and hushed me, and I heard
The dark close silence on a sudden stirred
By the resistless rapture of your song.
Now, when afar to waiting wood and hill
Trembles exquisite clear your sweet prelude,
Before the passion of the melody,
All the slow pulses of mv being thrill,
And all my heart pours out a silver flood
Of answering — half pain, half ecstasy.