And this is the song that I sing you, the song that the nightingale pours,
The song that the nightingales fling you from eventide’s musical shores.
The shepherd boy carols his meter, and follow the feet of his herds;
The song of the skylark is fleeter because of the absence of words;
Is the language of mortals the sweeter, more sweet than the music of birds?
My lips they may tremble to say it, however my pulses may beat;
The tale that I tell you may weigh it and find it a tale incomplete—
But here is my heart, and I lay it, all voiceless and mute, at your feet.
I can’t tell you, girl, the old story, embellished with city-bred lies,
The tale that a planet grown hoary still hears with the olden surprise—