About The Nightingale
From a letter from STC to Wordsworth after writing The Nightingale:
In stale blank verse a subject stale
I send per post my Nightingale;
And like an honest bard, dear Wordsworth,
You'll tell me what you think, my Bird's worth.
My own opinion's briefly this--
His bill he opens not amiss;
And when he has sung a stave or so,
His breast, & some small space below,
So throbs & swells, that you might swear
No vulgar music's working there.
So far, so good; but then, 'od rot him!
There's something falls off at his bottom.
Yet, sure, no wonder it should breed,
That my Bird's Tail's a tail indeed
And makes it's own inglorious harmony
Æolio crepitû, non carmine.
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Related quotes
The Small Nightingale
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird
Oh! god save me!
Oh! lord save me!
I have tried to save myself but i failed to?
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a sorrowful bird
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a sorrowful bird
Oh! god forget about this;
Listen about the frog
The frog was jealous of me as i sing so well
He wants me to die
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird
BUT, I am a dying bird
BUT, I am a dying bird.
Oh! god save me!
Oh! lord save me!
poem by Abhishek Nair
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The Poet And The Bird
Said a people to a poet---' Go out from among us straightway!
While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine.
There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateways
Makes fitter music to our ears than any song of thine!'
The poet went out weeping---the nightingale ceased chanting;
'Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?'
I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting,
Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under sun.'
The poet went out weeping,---and died abroad, bereft there---
The bird flew to his grave and died, amid a thousand wails:---
And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there
Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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An Amateur Penner Is All I Can Be
An amateur penner is all I can be and my worth as a rhymer I doubt
But when you tell me there's music in blank verse I wonder what you are on about
I've always thought music has rhythm and rhyme and is married to rhyming song
But of literature and music I am not a judge and maybe I do have it wrong
The music in good rhyming poetry one sense at least that's how it does seem to me
But I'm leaving room for an argument here and some with me may not agree
But that's my opinion make of it what you may we all look at things differently
If we all looked at life in the very same way how dull and boring we would be
Some will tell you a songwriter is not a poet their opinion on that is different to mine
Like some are very happy to welcome the rain and some want the day warm and fine
You tell me that there is music in blank verse though I cannot see it that way
But your opinion on the matter is as good as mine and with me that is quite okay
Oh give me a song that is built of good rhyme that to music is easy to sing
With such I am happy for to sing along and I find it such a joyful thing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Stay Germ Free
Bird Flu and Swine Flu can travel our way.
So may cleanliness be the mode of the day...
In the Florence Nightingale way.
'Florence Nightingale'
nurse in the Crimean War
helped British soldiers
by cleaning the hospitals
halving the dreadful death toll.
Although retired, she gave her all
to improve the conditions
in the Nursing Profession,
leaving behind a valuable lesson.
Bird Flu and Swine Flu can travel our way
So may cleanliness be the mode of the day
in the Florence Nightingale way.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Weird-Bird
from the wire chirp
on the wire chirp
frantic head
to and fro
to and fro
chirp, chirp, chirp
little bird on a wire
head and beak
to and fro
to and fro
ten times in a second
tail up, tail down, tail up, tail down
the tight feathered bodice
doing a twist
legs angled tight on tiny wire
a tightrope walker
chirp, chirp, chirp
looking for some fun
looking for a companion to share its day
chirp, chirp, chirp
inspired by
Weird-Bird
Birds are flyin' south for winter.
Here's the Weird-Bird headin' north,
Wings a-flappin', beak a-chatterin',
Cold head bobbin' back 'n' forth.
He says, 'It's not that I like ice
Or freezin' winds and snowy ground.
It's just sometimes it's kind of nice
To be the only bird in town.'
Shel Silverstein
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Our Wordsworth
Oh! Wordsworth, Oh! Wordsworth …
We are still in debt to you, and we will have to be.
You enhanced the strength of poetry.
You made a marvelous tune to enrich poetry.
Oh! Wordsworth …
We can now clarify our thoughts with extend because of you, Wordsworth.
You euphonized poetry without the indenture- but with moderation,
and it's decorous.
This will be evergreen, and everlasting.
It's a mnemonics and I always follow it.
Oh! Wordsworth…
poem by Bibhakar Dutta
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The Merry Bard
ZULEIKAH! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-wasted and wear
yellow slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and
the hairs of my beard are mostly gray. Praise be to Allah! I am a
merry bard.
There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. Praise
be to Allah! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a
merry bard. He deafens me with his diabolical screaming.
There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. Praise be
to Allah! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard.
The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul.
I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight.
Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard.
poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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In the strips of woods [În arcane de pădure]
In the strips of woods, the darkness in a scary way is clinging.
Both the crowded leaves are silent and the slender trees, so high;
Night is dumb, and sad, and dying, sheltered by the opaque sky,
But the nightingale is singing, but the nightingale is singing.
In the strips of woods, the tempest in a scary way is spinning,
Sending down a flood of water and a crimson bolt of flame;
Why is harmony a nuisance and a fury without aim,
But the nightingale is singing, but the nightingale is singing.
In the strips of woods, the terror with the quietness is mingling,
Late aurora under foliage cannot come to light the moss,
For in front of it the darkness blocks the way and lies across –
But the nightingale is singing, but the nightingale is singing.
poem by Alexandru Macedonski, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Tiger By The Tail
What a shock it was so surprising
You looked so small and frail
I didnt know what to do
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
People said that you must be joking
You let emotions run away with you
I realized a little too late
I bit off more than I could chew
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
Sometimes you grip it right
And sometimes you fail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
At times life can be so enlightening
But it can turn on you
Lately it gets so complicated i
I dont know what the tiger will do
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
Sometimes you grip it right
And sometimes you fail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
Sometimes you grip it right
And sometimes you fail
I grabbed the tiger by the tail
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Three Maidens
There were three maidens met on the highway;
The sun was down, the night was late:
And two sang loud with the birds of May,
O the nightingale is merry with its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still?
The land is dark, the night is late:
O, but the heart in my side is ill,
And the nightingale will languish for its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store;
The moon mounts up, the night is late:
O, I shall look on man no more,
And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing;
The moon mounts high, the night is late:
O my dear lover can hear no thing,
And the nightingale sings only to its mate.
They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure;
The moon is pale, the night is late:
His grave is shallow on the moor;
O the nightingale is dying for its mate.
His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair;
The moon is chill, the night is late:
But I will lie beside him there:
O the nightingale is dying for its mate.
poem by George Meredith
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Jokerman
Standing on the waters casting your bread
While the eyes of the idol with the iron head are glowing.
Distant ships sailing into the mist,
You were born with a snake in both of your fists while a hurricane was blowing.
Freedom just around the corner for you
But with the truth so far off, what good will it do?
Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, jokerman.
So swiftly the sun sets in the sky,
You rise up and say goodbye to no one.
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,
Both of their futures, so full of dread, you dont show one.
Shedding off one more layer of skin,
Keeping one step ahead of the persecutor within.
Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, jokerman.
Youre a man of the mountains, you can walk on the clouds,
Manipulator of crowds, youre a dream twister.
Youre going to sodom and gomorrah
But what do you care? aint nobody there would want to marry your sister.
Friend to the martyr, a friend to the woman of shame,
You look into the fiery furnace, see the rich man without any name.
Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, jokerman.
Well, the book of leviticus and deuteronomy,
The law of the jungle and the sea are your only teachers.
In the smoke of the twilight on a milk-white steed,
Michelangelo indeed couldve carved out your features.
Resting in the fields, far from the turbulent space,
Half asleep near the stars with a small dog licking your face.
Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh. oh. oh. jokerman.
Well, the riflemans stalking the sick and the lame,
Preacherman seeks the same, wholl get there first is uncertain.
Nightsticks and water cannons, tear gas, padlocks,
Molotov cocktails and rocks behind every curtain,
False-hearted judges dying in the webs that they spin,
Only a matter of time til night comes steppin in.
Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, jokerman.
Its a shadowy world, skies are slippery gray,
A woman just gave birth to a prince today and dressed him in scarlet.
Hell put the priest in his pocket, put the blade to the heat,
Take the motherless children off the street
And place them at the feet of a harlot.
Oh, jokerman, you know what he wants,
Oh, jokerman, you dont show any response.
Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune,
Bird fly high by the light of the moon,
Oh, oh, oh, jokerman.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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David Ap Gwillam At The Mass Of The Birds
THE Thrush, the Lark, and, chief, the Nightingale,
With one small bird whose name I do not ken,
Offered a Mass; the little bird was clerk,
At intervals he struck his silver bell.
The stars above that were but whitened then
The candles were; the altar was a stone;
Myself was there, with meet observances
Hearing the Mass the birds said in the dell.
It was the Lark who sang in dark's decrease
Kyrie Eleison; then the Nightingale
The Consecration chanted solemnly.
(The silver bell was rung for him in chief.)
And then the Thrush, the dweller in the vale,
Orate Fratres sang how near, how clear!
The Thrush it was who, as the sun appeared,
Held up the Monstrance, a dew-circled leaf!
poem by Padraic Colum
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The Bird that dances by tail
Swallow.the bird that goes into cattle byre
And no bird that goes into cattle byre
Wow white black bull
The bird that goes into cattle byre
Swallow, the bird that crosses ocean
And no bird crosses ocean
Wow whhite black bull
The bird that crosses ocean
Swallow, the bird that dances by tail
And no bird that dances by tail
Wow white black bull
The bird that dances by tail
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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The Lake Poets
You have heard of William Wordsworth he was bard of Cockermouth
And he truly was a great poet if that ever was in doubt
And with Southey and With Coleridge they became known as the lake poets
And they made the Lake District famous and some famous poems they wrote.
Robert Southey was a fine poet he was slave to poetry
And he was for awhile Poet Laureate proves the great poet he must be
And though he is not well known as Coleridge and Wordsworth's is a greater name
He tends to be under rated and deserve a better fame.
And as for Samuel Taylor Coleridge a name verse critics celebrate
His works were born of genius a poetic all time great
The Rhyme Of The Ancient Mariner his masterpiece and some say
Is even greater than the famous elegy of Gray
And as for himself Will Wordsworth his fame seem to grow and grow
He has fifty times as many readers nowadays as he had one hundred years ago
When one talks of poets and poetry Wordsworth's name can't be left out
A testimony to the greatness of the Bard of Cockermouth.
Coleridge, Southey and Wordsworth geniuses all three
Their names inscribed in glory and poetic history
They lived in the Lake District that beautiful English country side
And due to the fame of these men the Lake District is known World wide.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The caged lust
A stale wife is not a stale woman.
A stale husband is not a stale man.
Woman is a magnet to a stranger.
Man is a bullet to a stranger.
12.03.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Critic and Poet: an Epilogue
("Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impassioned; this man is neither simple, sensuous, nor impassioned; therefore he is not a poet")
No man had ever heard a nightingale,
When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred
To study and define--what is a bird,
To classify by rote and book, nor fail
To mark its structure and to note the scale
Whereon its song might possibly be heard.
Thus far, no farther;--so he spake the word.
When of a sudden,--hark, the nightingale!
Oh deeper, higher than he could divine
That all-unearthly, untaught strain! He saw
The plain, brown warbler, unabashed. "Not mine"
(He cried) "the error of this fatal flaw.
No bird is this, it soars beyond my line,
Were it a bird, 'twould answer to my law."
poem by Emma Lazarus
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Ay De Mi
O bird, that used to press,
Thy head against my cheek
With touch that seem'd to speak,
And ask a tender 'yes' -
Ay de mi, my bird:
Ay de mi, my bird, my bird -
Ay de mi, my bird.
O tender downy breast,
And warmly beating heart,
That beating seem'd a part
Of me who gave it rest -
Ay de mi, my bird:
Ay de mi, my bird, my bird -
Ay de mi, my bird.
poem by George Eliot
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Bird Raptures
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, everything
That is so silent, sweet, and pale,
Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon,
Make haste to wake the nightingale:
Let silence set the world in tune
To hearken to that wordless tale
Which warbles from the nightingale.
O herald skylark, stay thy flight
One moment, for a nightingale
Floods us with sorrow and delight.
To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail;
Leave us tonight the nightingale.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Nightingale
Nightingale
Sing us a song
Of a love that once belonged
Nightingale
Tell me your tale
Was your journey far too long?
Does it seem like I'm looking for an answer
To a question I can't ask
I don't know which way the feather falls
Or if i should blow it to the left
All the voices that are spinnin' around me
Trying to tell me what to say
Can I fly right behind you
And you can take me away
song performed by by Norah Jones from Come Away With Me
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nightingale
A nightingale dropped a letter
Upon my door last eve.
Such a lovely bird of paradise, she raised my spirit-
Tormented and remorseful, and carried it to heaven.
She left a branch of goldenrod- Peace flowers, before my feet.
After one fortnight and one month, I believed
I never again would be blessed to hear her sing,
If only I could feel the softness of her supple, downy feathers
Brush against my heart again,
And to see her green and soulful eyes gaze adoringly into mine,
I would capture her in both my hands,
And kiss her wounded wings.
I would steal away the pain that traumatized her mind and soul.
I’d send it to vanish within the early autumn breeze.
The song she sings is discordant, sad and dolorous.
Her spirit, fragile raw and vulnerable.
Her plumage, so delicate and frail has softened my hardened heart.
The tune she carries is bittersweet and mournful.
As I watch her soar into the heavens,
And disappear behind the rising moon,
I begin to weep dry tears inside,
Over the loss of almost-love.
I bid farewell to the only one whoever made my spirit dance-
That enchanting nightingale,
Who shall always dwell within the very core of me,
My loving tender bird of paradise.
Claudia Krizay
poem by Claudia Krizay
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