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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345345" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To The Nightingale</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Exert thy Voice, sweet Harbinger of Spring!<br> This Moment is thy Time to sing,<br> This Moment I attend to Praise,<br>And set my Numbers to thy Layes.<br> Free as thine shall be my Song;<br> As thy Musick, short, or long. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poets, wild as thee, were born,<br> Pleasing best when unconfin'd,<br> When to Please is least design'd,<br>Soothing but their Cares to rest; <br> Cares do still their Thoughts molest,<br> And still th' unhappy Poet's Breast,<br>Like thine, when best he sings, is plac'd against a Thorn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She begins, Let all be still!<br> Muse, thy Promise now fulfill!<br>Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet<br>Can thy Words such Accents fit,<br>Canst thou Syllables refine,<br>Melt a Sense that shall retain<br>Still some Spirit of the Brain, <br>Till with Sounds like these it join.<br> 'Twill not be! then change thy Note;<br> Let division shake thy Throat. <br>Hark! Division now she tries;<br>Yet as far the Muse outflies. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Cease then, prithee, cease thy Tune;<br> Trifler, wilt thou sing till June?<br>Till thy Bus'ness all lies waste,<br>And the Time of Building's past!<br> Thus we Poets that have Speech, <br>Unlike what thy Forests teach,<br> If a fluent Vein be shown<br> That's transcendant to our own,<br>Criticize, reform, or preach,<br>Or censure what we cannot reach.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Kingsmill+Finch">Anne Kingsmill Finch</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=345345" data-title="To The Nightingale de Anne Kingsmill Finch" data-description="Exert thy Voice, sweet Harbinger of Spring!
 This Moment is thy Time to sing,
 This Moment I attend to Praise,
And set my Numbers to thy Layes.
 Free as thine shall be my Song;
 As thy Musick, short, or long. 

Poets, wild as thee, were born,
 Ple..."></div>
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