Theres little difference, in their view,

Shot rockets from Carraia bridge.

Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt

Such women are so. As for me,

Down Arnos stream in festive guise;

In gloomy England, called the free.

And still they sing, the nightingales.

And you be silent? Do I speak,

And love was awful in it all.

Like spiders, in the altars wood.

O coverture of death drawn forth

I marvel how the birds can sing.

Yet souls are damned and loves profaned.

The cypress stood, self-balanced high;

He says to her what moves her most.

Gods nature which is love, intrude

Though such he has praised—nor yet, I think,

(Yes, free to die in!...) when we two

And you not hear? An arm you throw

Who gaze upon her unaware.

Yearned after, in my desperate need,

What leaping eyeballs!—beauty dashed

I would not play her larcenous tricks

Like arrows through heroic mails,

Commit such sacr九-九-藏-书-网ilege, affront

To have her looks! She lied and stole,

But set a springe for him, mio ben,

Nor heard the Grazie tanto bruised

He sees some things done they must move

How the last feast-day of Saint John

Gods Ever guarantees this Now.

And we, too! from such soul-height went

Trod deep down in that river of ours,

The nightingales, the nightingales!

- Or drugged me in my soup or wine,

That night we felt our love would hold,

I would we had drowned there, he and I,

She might have pricked out both my eyes,

With Giulio, in each word I say!

The rank saliva of her soul.

And through his words the nightingales

Half up, half down, as double-made,

Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring

As vital flames into the blue,

To coasts left bitter by the tide,

Like saturated sponges here

I think I hear him, how he cried

For still they sing, the nightingales.

And spat into my loves pure pyx

W藏书网e kissed so close we could not vow;

Refresh these pulses, quench this hell!

Is he too in this land, tis clear.

That moment, loving perfectly.

The nightingales, the nightingales.

She takes the breath of men away

And still they sing, the nightingales.

Delighting, torture and deride!

These nightingales will sing me mad!

The olives crystallized the vales

The fireflies and the nightingales

He cant say what to me he said!

She might have sinned in, so it seems:

Broad slopes until the hills grew strong:

I will not hear these nightingales.

On fire with passion now, to her

A boat strikes flame into our boat,

Nor left me angry afterward:

Upon the angle of its shade

And up that lady seems to rise

And thats immortal. Though his throats

Though Christ knows well what sin is, when

I seem to float, we seem to float

We scarce knew if our nature meant

A worthless woman! mere cold clay

He would not name his soul within

Across this garden-chamber... well!

But what have nightingales to do

Theyll sing and stun me in the tomb—

We paled with love, we shook with love,

Whose very nightingales, elsewhere

The nightingales, the nightingales.

And yet he moves her, they aver.

The nightingales, the nightingales.

Throbbed each to either, flame and song.

And still they sing, the nightingales.

And followed him as he did her

I would not for her white and pink,

While many a boat with lamp and choir

Round some one, and I feel so weak?

A vision on us! What a head,

I cannot bear these nightingales.

Gold ringlets... rarer in the south...

Theyll sing through death who sing through night,

I think of her by night and day.

O cold white moonlight of the north,

The nightingales, the nightingales.

９９ｌｉｂ.ｎetAnd wash the whole world clean as gold;

To sweetness by her English mouth.

Her hearing,—rather pays her cost

The luminous city, tall with fire,

Are sundered, singing still to me?

And saintly moonlight seemed to search

For life itself, though spent with him,

He had not caught her with her loosed

Drove straight and full their long clear call,

As all false things are! but so fair,

Most passionate earth or intense heaven.

Kill flies; nor had I, for my part,

The cypress stood up like a church

To die here with his hand in mine

Each man has but one soul supplied,

They sing for hate, they sing for doom!

She had not reached him at my heart

If she chose sin, some gentler guise

Along the ground, against the sky.

Though such he likes—her grace of limb,

And I still seen him in my dreams!

Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven,

With her fine tongue, as snakes indeed

Giulio, my G

藏书网

iulio!—sing they so,

The nightingales, the nightingales.

As then she rose. The shock had flashed

To splendour by a sudden dread.

Till Giulio whispered, Sweet, above

The nightingales sing through my head.

Man has but one soul, tis ordained,

(Our Lady hush these nightingales!)

With praises to her lips and chin.

Must I too join her... out, alas!...

And evermore the nightingales!

My own souls life between their notes.

- Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite,

And still they sing, the nightingales.

And dull round blots of foliage meant

And still they sing, the nightingales.

And each soul but one love, I add;

My only good, my first last love!—

To suck the fogs up. As content

Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers.

My native Florence! dear, forgone!

Himself to wonder. Let her pass.

Too bold to sin, too weak to die;

I see across the Alpine ridge

His breath upon me, were not hard.