Alone I sit at eventide: The twilight glory pales, And o’er the meadows far and wide Chant pensive bobolinks. (One might say nightingales!) Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old “manse o’er the lea” Flies slow the cawing crow. (In England ’twere a rook!) The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men. (Oh, would that we had swains!) From farm-yards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids, Sweeter than oriole’s. (Yes, thank you—Philomel’s!) I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun’s bright flame And heard the chickadee. (Alas we have no lark!) We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books): The poet does his best— It is the rhyme that fails!
Larks and Nightingales
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