Lilacs from the scented East,
Exiled from thy Persian home,
Where the silver fountain’s fall
Echoed from the palace wall,
Where the bulbul’s plaintive call
Thrill’d in gardens of delight,
Grievest thou for that far home,
Oh, pale flower of the East.
Like some princess, Eastern born,
Strange among our rustic ways,
Heavy perfum’d, tropic bred,
Dusky leaved and nourished
On the dews which midnight shed,
Where old Omar watch’d the night,
In our simple Western ways,
Mournest thou, O Eastern born!
Dost thou miss the nightingale!
Lo, our thrush’s song is sweet;
And thine ancient land is low,
Faded, faded long ago,
All the splendor, all the glow,
All the glory, all the light,
List, the thrush’s note is sweet,
Oh, forget the nightingale.