O Nightingale! Thou Surely Art A Creature Of A "Fiery Heart": These Notes Of Thine, They Pierce And Pierce; Tumultuous Harmony And Fierce! Thou Sing'St As If The God Of Wine Had Helped Thee To A Valentine; A Song In Mockery And Despite Of Shades, And Dews, And Silent Night; And Steady Bliss, And All The Loves Now Sleeping In These Peaceful Groves. I Heard A Stock-Dove Sing Or Say His Homely Tale, This Very Day; His Voice Was Buried Among Trees, Yet To Be Come At By The Breeze: He Did Not Cease; But Cooed, And Cooed; And Somewhat Pensively He Wooed: He Sang Of Love, With Quiet Blending, Slow To Begin, And Never Ending; Of Serious Faith, And Inward Glee; That Was The Song, The Song For Me!