Classic Poem

O nightingale sweet, to whose singing
oft I list (thou knowest not where)
in this spacious peace, from the ringing
dogberry tree and acacia bush there;

from thee I have taken (your leave,
nightingale,) a single sweet note,
and sing it alone in the eve,
under lonely moonlight remote.

A tremulous bubbling of sound
mingled with the fragrance of hay,
a fountain that purls from the ground,
whistle faint of train far away.

Who passes, when daylight is dying,
he who hears a piping down there,
discerns in his heart a low crying
calling him to things as they were.

Once more in the village he knows,
there he finds again the old way:
fair fragrance of candle and rose,
odors sweet of month of the May.

The litanies buzz in his ears,
like the bees a cradle about;
his mother in worship he hears,
near to her a maiden devout.

Then silence, and gradually stealing
through this note of mine (for a time),
he hears once again, loudly pealing,
far away, his old church bell chime.

He takes up anew the old prayer,
now no longer felt, as of yore;
he lives in the olden days fair,
days for him alas! now no more.
. . . . . .

Who am I? Ask not. I am weeping,
but by night, for shameful it seems.
In mud, winged one, I am creeping,
lo! a wretched toad, one that dreams.