O, nightingale, among the leaves,
Who singest to the blushing rose,
Thy liquid, mellow music cleaves,
The garden’s fragrance where it goes.
Who taught thy feather’d slender throat
This strange delicious limpid note?
Which soaring skyward through the dark
In swift melodious pursuit
Tempt all the list’ning stars to hark!
And all the list’ning leaves be mute!
Teach me thy song, O happy bird,
That neath the window of my love,
My lips may speak some honeyed word,
With wings to waft it up above.
And when she comes her starry eyes
Shall shame their rivals in the skies;
Her cheeks shall mock thy rose and thou
Beholding what thou thinkest thine
Perch’d lightly on the lofty bough,
Shalt leave thy rose and sing to mine!