A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS THE the cripple in the chair, HEY paused, The many-buttoned page; The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid, With straggling train of three; The Frenchman with his frogs and braid ;— All, curious, paused to see, If possible, the small, dusk bird That from the almond bough, Had poured the joyous chant they heard, So suddenly, but now. And one poor POET stopped and thought How many a lonely lay That bird had sung ere fortune brought It near the common way, NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS Where the crowd hears the note. And then, To whom that hour of listening men But "Art for Art!" the Poet said, That sings where no men's feet will tread, |