Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake.
That's what they are: pleasant voices, triumphantly 'telling the world.'"
"Even Keats," he said, "makes the song a little too voluptuous and passionate, although how true to say that the nightingale 'among the leaves' has never known
The weariness, the fever, and the fret!"
He paused, and then repeated, almost in a whisper, the lines:—
Now more than ever it seems rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul aloud
In such an ecstasy!