A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. Where the crowd hears the note. To whom that hour of listening men But "Art for Art!" the Poet said, ""Tis still the Nightingale, And then, That sings where no men's feet will tread, A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. WHEN Spring comes laughing By vale and hill, By wind-flower walking And daffodil, Sing stars of morning, Sing morning skies, Sing blue of speedwell, When comes the Summer, And gay birds gossip The orchard long, Sing hid, sweet honey When Autumn scatters The leaves again, And piled sheaves bury The broad-wheeled wain, · VOL. I. 12 177 |