The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion-call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.
More verses by William Ernest Henley
- Not To The Staring Day
- On The Way To Kew
- In The Waste Hour
- The Ways Of Death Are Soothing And Serene
- We Are The Choice Of The Will