The oleander on the wall

　　Grows crimson in the dawning light，

　　Though the grey shadows of the night

　　Lie yet on Florence like a pall．

　　The dew is bright upon the hill，

　　And bright the blossoms overhead，

　　But ah！ the grasshoppers have fled，

　　The little Attic song is still．

　　Only the leaves are gently stirred

　　By the soft breathing of the gale，

　　And in the almond－scented vale

　　The lonely nightingale is heard．

　　The day will make thee silent soon，

　　O nightingale sing on for love！

　　While yet upon the shadowy grove

　　Splinter the arrows of the moon．

　　Before across the silent lawn

　　In sea－green vest the morning steals，

　　And to love's frightened eyes reveals

　　The long white fingers of the dawn

　　Fast climbing up the eastern sky

　　To grasp and slay the shuddering night，

　　All careless of my heart's delight，

　　Or if the nightingale should die．

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