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No Nightingale did ever chauntSo sweetly to reposing bandsOf Travellers in some shady haunt.Among Arabian Sands:No sweeter voice was ever heardIn spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of today?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again!
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