And when is nature more complete, Than in thy midnight hour? When every angle meet and mingle, Within thy misty laden dingle, And spirit pauseth in the heart, To rectify its ancient art, By the shadow on the flower, Sweet mocking bird.
And when has music kissed a string Till such a lyric breath intone? Of all the joy, of all the pain, Sweet summer holds to earth again. The far sweet pain of bursting Hours, Whose sparkling eyes, in tears of flowers, Yield thee a drink that's all thine own, Sweet mocking bird.
Ah! Light of dreams! when spirit hears Such music calls, can life forget? Each night thou lightest up the gloom Within my spirits stifled room, And beckoneth on to hopes afar, My singer and my star, my star! The all of all that thou hast met, Sweet mocking bird!
The gos'mer web that mistifies, Lies not on any whole or part, Or stop or start, but in the art, Men hang upon their eyes.
And haply in an age afar, Two men may see the self-same mote-- The selfsame beam, with motes afloat, And learn what souls and systems are.
Triumphant Day's grand pageantry At song, and all the garlands won, Far in the west the queenly Eve, Blue misty mantled, takes her leave, Tiaraed with a Sun.
And Lo! Sweet night, a nut-brown maid, With silent wonder pursing lips, Or humming soft a bird's low song, Trips down the hall. Behold the throng Bow to her finger tips.
Thy dewy dreams, thine Ariel dreams, Then turn thee to thy dainty dreams, Thine airy shell is now alight, To bear thee down Æolean streams, Good night, my love, good night, good night.
By misty strands of phantom lands, By golden shores and phantom lands, Across the sea of starry light To drop thee on enchanted strands-- Good night, my love, good night, good night.
Afar from me and there with thee, Ah! could I journey there with thee, Across the sea of starry light; But nay, 'tis thine own journey's sea-- Good night, my love, good night, good night.
But golden Morn must sound her horn, And when the morning's triton horn Is heralding thy homing flight, I'll meet thee on the shores of morn,-- Good night, my love, good night, good night.
Of the languorous South with her wine-stained mouth, And her easy ways, I sing. Ah! see where she stands, my lady of lands, With a rose in her hair and a gracious air, Where her lovers cling.