Sing , honey-throated, for Tryphaena's sake!
Breathing the blue and footing in the green
Passes the Youth o' the Year in shade and sheen:
Sing nightingale in the undiscovered brake!
Sing loud, the baby-buds are all awake.
Under the hill the woodman's work I've seen,
A milk-white havock of the axe between
The living oaks. And lo! (as if to slake
The passion heats of April,) millionfold
Needles of momentary diamond
Blown in a curtain past the Sun, a gale
Of broken lights and whispers!—and the gold
Again! ah, breathe it Earth, and Heaven respond!
This is Tryphaena, sing it nightingale!