Puslapio vaizdai

Where the crowd hears the note. And then,—

What birds must sing the song,

To whom that hour of listening men

Could ne'er in life belong!

But "Art for Art !" the Poet said,
"'Tis still the Nightingale,

That sings where no men's feet will tread,
And praise and audience fail."


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Sing flutes of harvest
Where men rejoice;
Sing rounds of reapers,—
And my Love's voice.

But when comes Winter
With hail and storm,
And red fire roaring

And ingle warm,—

Sing first sad going

Of friends that part ; Then sing glad meeting,—

And my Love's heart.

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