<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=512900" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To the Nightingale</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!<br>How many Bards in city garret pent,<br>While at their window they with downward eye<br>Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud,<br>And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen<br>(Those hoarse unfeather'd Nightingales of Time!),<br>How many wretched Bards address thy name,<br>And hers, the full-orb'd Queen that shines above.<br>But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,<br>Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid<br>Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.<br>O! I have listen'd, till my working soul,<br>Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,<br>Absorb'd hath ceas'd to listen! Therefore oft,<br>I hymn thy name: and with a proud delight<br>Oft will I tell thee, Minstrel of the Moon!<br>'Most musical, most melancholy' Bird!<br>That all thy soft diversities of tone,<br>Tho' sweeter far than the delicious airs<br>That vibrate from a white-arm'd Lady's harp,<br>What time the languishment of lonely love<br>Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow,<br>Are not so sweet as is the voice of her,<br>My Sara - best beloved of human kind!<br>When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,<br>She thrills me with the Husband's promis'd name!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Samuel+Taylor+Coleridge">Samuel Taylor Coleridge</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=512900" data-title="To the Nightingale de Samuel Taylor Coleridge" data-description="Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel! How many Bards in city garret pent, While at their window they with downward eye Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud, And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen (Those hoarse unfeather'd Nightingales of..."></div> </div> </div>

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