A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS THE the cripple in the chair, HEY paused, The many-buttoned page; The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid, 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, Where the crowd hears the note. What birds must sing the song, And then, To whom that hour of listening men But "Art for Art!" the Poet said, "'Tis still the Nightingale, That sings where no men's feet will tread, |