In the half-evanished Dark,
Casts his singing to their singing, like an arrow to the mark.
Never nightingale so singeth—
Oh! she leans on thorny tree,
And her poet-soul she flingeth
Over pain to victory!
Yet she never sings such music,—or she sings it not to me!
Never blackbirds, never thrushes,
Nor small finches sing as sweet,
When the sun strikes through the bushes