Nightingales with joyous cheer
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultur’d grove.
Where the thickest boughs are twining
Of the greenest, darkest tree,
There they plunge, the light declining—
All may hear, but none may see.
Fearless of the passing hoof,
Hardly will they fleet aloof;
So they live in modest ways,