The night has a way of evoking powerful emotions within us. It can be a time of reflection, melancholy, or even hope.
In literature, the night has been a source of inspiration for centuries, with poets and writers exploring its mysteries and complexities.
Among the most beloved creatures of the night is the nightingale, known for its hauntingly beautiful song.
Nightingale poems have long been a staple of English literature, with writers such as John Keats and Samuel Taylor Coleridge capturing the bird’s melancholy in their works.
Through these poems about nightingale, we can explore the depths of our own emotions and connect with the natural world around us.
Funny Nightingale Poems
Who doesn’t like laughing? Even the melancholic nightingale can bring a smile to our faces. Enjoy these interesting poems about nightingale that are sure to brighten your day.
by Hartley Coleridge
‘Tis sweet to hear the merry lark,
That bids a blithe good-morrow;
But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark,
To the soothing song of sorrow.
Oh nightingale! What doth she ail?
And is she sad or jolly?
For ne’er on earth was sound of mirth
So like to melancholy.
The merry lark, he soars on high,
No worldly thought o’ertakes him;
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,
And the daylight that awakes him.
As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay,
The nightingale is trilling;
With feeling bliss, no less than his,
Her little heart is thrilling.
Yet ever and anon, a sigh
Peers through her lavish mirth;
For the lark’s bold song is of the sky,
And hers is of the earth.
By night and day, she tunes her lay,
To drive away all sorrow;
For bliss, alas! to-night must pass,
And woe may come to-morrow.
2. This Nightingale
Nightingale dances to a union jack’s tune
Blonded and bonded to the winter wind’s croon
Black leather lost, soul-searching for safe havens
Soothing the streetlight as she serenades,
Healing the moonlight as her honeymoon fades.
In flocks, it is said,
That safety will travel
And numbers protect those that fly,
But the heart, indeed, is a lonely hunter
So land your weary arms in mine.
You can return with the swallows to Capistrano
Or follow the flamingos as they swoon and sail
You can hang onto a hummingbird’s heartbeat,
Just wrap me in the wings of this nightingale.
It’s the lark, that’s true,
That sent me to you –
Nursing the daylight until it flutters then soars,
Nestling the twilight by the hospital doors.
In the dark, it is said
That the truth hangs lower,
And slower move the birds in time
So un-tether from your trembling sadness,
And land your weary arms in mine.
You can sing the songbird’s symphony
Or fleece the feathers off a sparrows tail
You can hang onto a hummingbird’s heartbeat,
Just wrap me in the wings of this nightingale.
3. The Nightingale
Cinderblock ashes and miles a sunder
And the crestfallen seas as wide there after
The nightingale as she was called
Bold, brave and on a journey
Searching for the missing piece in her heart
She looked and looked
But she couldn’t find
She asked and asked
But nobody replied
And her words came to deaf ears
But the nightingale traveled still
Far and wide and never wavering
Wandering the great vortex within
And asked every possible being
But to no avail
The nightingale of the dark was lost
And in midst of the ever looming
Swallowing shadows coalescing
To a tapestry of nothing but black
She recognized one fateful truth
No amount of screaming nor
Soothing of her pain will surmount
The fact that no one
Nobody is going to come help her
Find what she was looking for
4. Owl and Nightingale
by Donald Guy
A late hour indeed, darkness over land, but
A bright light shines from a moon above
As a shadow sweeps across the surface.
For a moment, it stands emblazoned, precarious
Adumbrated phoenix in the sky,
But it does not flare out.
Sweeping lower, the form resolves,
Alights narrowly on a fine branch.
For a moment, it struggles for balance
But soon it finds a niche, stands true;
Visage of wisdom in the night
But not without flaw
Not the swiftest, lacking in grace
Lost territories in cunctation.
Still, secure in its plumage,
Into the night, ready to fly:
Hunter poised in the trees
It soars aloft
Nearby, another branch inhabited
Not a vision this one, a voice.
A lighter weight, a softer presence
Harmonious to the calm
Tones of beauty to the air
It rings forth
Awhile, this one too struggled
It tried the songs of the mockingbird
Some rang esthetic, others strange,
But now its own song found:
Anthem sung for the heart
Chorus all may hear
Birds of the night. Dark to dawn
Their habits thus have been.
Now with the new morning,
A change in the season;
Mind and Song together to the sky
Light out for the lit horizon …
5. To Nightingale 74- Poetic Bird
by Dr. Peter Lim
Dear Poetic Bird
Fly, fly, fly high
With every song, every word
You beautify the sky.
Dawn is breaking
Dreams are beckoning
Love is awakening
Dance, rejoice, sing and sing!
Famous Nightingale Poems
Including John Keats, the nightingale has been a source of inspiration for some of the greatest poets of all time. Delve into these famous poems about nightingale and discover the beauty and power of their words.
1. My Little Nightingale
by John Mar
Nothing will ever compare to my little Nightingale
Neither the prettiest lady nor the sexiest female.
For she bailed me out of my miserable tale
In a sea of pure pain and agony where I usually sail.
My little Nightingale is always busy
Caring for other people’s sickness, curing for other’s misery.
Helping weak people stand, making the babies a nursery,
Reaching for the poor people’s hand, and taking out my insanity.
But my little Nightingale knows nothing about this
For she loves to work in anonymity, and a place in peace.
But my beloved Nightingale knows nothing about this
For she captured my heart, this perfectly deity-like miss.
My little Nightingale knows not one single thing.
‘Tis the feeling I feel inside, ‘tis the desire I always hide.
That I want to see her dressed in full white, marching at the center of an aisle,
With the priest commanding me, “ You may now kiss your bride!”
2. The Nightingale’s Last Song
by Mona Paranoia
Once there was a lonely crow,
Who fell in love with the nightingale’s broken soul
Bewitched by his otherwordly beauty and frailty
She yearned for his song to possess of her body
The nightingale fell in love with the crow’s genuine affection
Of how she visited every day to listen to his misfortunes
She accepted his whole being despite of his imperfections
A broken bird like him doesn’t deserve to have salvation
They shared a special bond, no one in this world could understand
One moment of their affection is eternity in Time’s hand
The two understood that Fate abhorred their unlikely passion
And one night, they knew, everything came to a conclusion
“Sing with me, my love”, the nightingale hums
“For this is a memorable night I wish that would last”
The crow who does not sing, sang a song full of love
Two incompatible birds wove their melodious sounds
“Will you hold my hand while I sleep?”, the tired nightingale pleads
The crow nodded her head, not looking at his misery
While holding his hand, she promised of unending songs of devotion
The nightingale closed his eyes and dreamed of their reunion
3. The Nightingale and the Glow-worm
by William Cowper
A Nightingale, that all day long
Had cheer’d the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangu’d him thus, right eloquent —
Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For ’twas the self-same pow’r divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.
The songster heard his short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Releas’d him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real int’rest to discern;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life’s poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other’s case
The gifts of nature and of grace.
Those Christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.
by Chrissy Ade
The nightingale is titillating;
its songs shiver down my spine
while listening to its melodious voice;
hearing the pitch-perfect harmonies,
is as calming as the summer sea
I watch the nightingale, perfectly perched on the tree
whispering sweet sounds of seduction
beckoning to her mate
its voice echoes throughout the night
Filling the eeriness of the pitch-black sky
My own nightingale, won’t you sing to me?
Your voice is my sanity,
soft-spoken and light, solace rests in your songs,
It covers me like a blanket,
shielding me from all harm
Safe and sound in your presence
captured by those gentle brown eyes
your peace is like the moon,
Resting still in the dark
But always following around
My nightingale sings me to sleep
as the sky changes from dusk to night
the sweet little notes caress my ears
while I gently close my eyes
dreaming to her lovely lullaby
5. On a Nightingale in April
by William Sharp
The yellow moon is a dancing phantom
Down secret ways of the flowing shade;
And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper
Where the alders wave.
Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream’s whisper:
Only the moon is a dancing blade
That leads a host of the Crescent warriors
To a phantom raid.
Out of the Lands of Faerie a summons,
A long, strange cry that thrills through the glade:—
The gray-green glooms of the elm are stirring,
Last heard, white music, under the olives
Where once Theocritus sang and played—
Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder,
O moon-white maid!
by Matthew Arnold
Hark! ah, the nightingale—
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark!—what pain!
O wanderer from a Grecian shore,
Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain
That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain—
Say, will it never heal?
And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy racked heart and brain
Afford no balm?
Dost thou to-night behold,
Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?
Dost thou again peruse
With hot cheeks and seared eyes
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister’s shame?
Dost thou once more assay
Thy flight, and feel come over thee,
Poor fugitive, the feathery change
Once more, and once more seem to make resound
With love and hate, triumph and agony,
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?
How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!
Inspirational Nightingale Poems
The nightingale’s song can be a source of inspiration and hope, even on the darkest of nights. These inspirational poems about nightingale offer a message of comfort and strength to those who need it most.
1. Blue Nightingale: A Sailor’s Song to Sleep
by Meister Lendonshire
Nightingale, oh my blue nightingale
How wondrous your songs make my day
You let my troubles left astray
Oh nightingale, blue nightingale now off we sail
Through the seas and blues we together wander
Off and on shore storms yet your night songs provide me refuge
That’s why I kept going each breakfast through supper
For the night I wait for your songs to cure my somber
Oh do I sometimes wonder why such night you only sing
But not for the day where my troubles are on its wing
Blue nightingale oh you’re such full of mysteries
Yet I shan’t bother for I cast you always my sea stories
After a long while my senses poked for you don’t sing no more
Nor your colorful blue wings spread nevermore
The storms went, wrecked our ship now we’re only together
My poor heart grieves, my poor soul hungers
Then I realized you only sing for the stars
Not for the morning sun, not for you, not for our poor ship and oh not for me
You’ve always dreamed to fly, fly away from here
To the stars that is, to the ambitious stars you always loved
Oh nightingale, blue nightingale from this false abode now I’ve awaken
From the lust o’ spell I’ve once trapped from your songs forsaken
Now I have to let you go no breath ever taken
Away now you fly and let me forever alone freeze on this cold of ice
Oh nightingale, my blue nightingale now you’re gone
But now I suppose, so am I
Nightingale, blue nightingale in my dreams you shall now sing and fly high
And now let I be put to sleep and alone sing this last cold sigh.
2. You are a Nightingale
by Jaskaran Singh
You are a great and amazing singer, it’s not a lie.
you will mesmerize the whole world with your melodious voice,
Your journey is inspirational and proves ” Success comes to those who try”.
Your voice is healing and transforming, on hearing it turns even my low days into high.
You are a blessing to the singing fraternity, people will fondly call you the” nightingale”.
God has a beautiful plan for you, just be patient for it to entail.
You will leave behind a legacy, become a voice to reckon, the world will hail.
3. As The Nightingale Sings
by Michael P Smith
As the Nightingale sings…
His sweet song of happiness
Driven by bountiful liberation
Relieved from timeless crappiness
Fluttering, making a joyful noise
Trials to deprive him of craftiness
Surely fails at inflicting such harm
He sings gleefully, free of nastiness.
As the Nightingale sings…
His wrenching song of fear
Realizing his time can easily fall
At any moment danger may appear
Songs of melodic screechy whistles
Alerting of predators lurking clear
He’s hurt, used to frequent viewing
His kin die, for each he sheds a tear.
As the Nightingale sings…
His sensual song of passion
Strong vocals of desired courtship
Refusing to share his ration
With many rivals upon his branch
Alluring females with his attraction
Mating rituals commencing in love
His plumage thrives in new fashion.
As the Nightingale sings…
His saddened song of sorrow
Wishing for better times to come
Hoping to make it to the morrow
Living below a abundant food chain
With a short lifespan to borrow
Singing til his last breath is breathed
Eloped to heaven, an angel he follows.
by Karen Lee
A caged bird is never meant to see light
I am imprisoned
Never seeing the sky
Never tasting the salty sea
Never smelling the grain fields
Never hearing the battle cries
Having the urge to fly.
To fly away with my dreams
To soar where no one has ever been
Singing my song to my master
that holds me hostage
I sing about my time in this cage.
That I can by no means be set
My Nightingale sings me enchanting songs.
She keeps me under a spell
I keep My Nightingale in a cage in my study so that She can
remain by my side
Even when everything goes wrong She sings
I never let Her out or near a window
Fearing that one day My Nightingale will leave me behind to
How every night I dream of horrid unspoken things
But when I reach My oh so lovely Nightingale
All these worries and frights wash away
Like the calming wind blowing through the cherry blossom trees
Such as the water flowing down a river searching for a new destination
Like the smooth rhythm of the old rocking chair
where my grandmother use to sit
It simply touches my heart
That is why I must never let Her go
She is my salvation in this wretched place
that is called home
Yes that is it.
I shall on no account grant My Nightingale liberty
For when that day comes I will perish off the
face of the world
5. Lark to Nightingale
There is a legend
about a bird
which sings just once in its life. more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth,
From the moment it leaves
the nest it searches for
a thorn tree, and it does not rest
until it has found one.
Then singing, among the savage branches, it pales itself upon the sharpest spine. And dying, it rises above its own agony
to outcarol the larkand the nightingale.
One superlative song, existence the price.
But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles.
for the best is only bought at the cost of great pain….Or
so says the legend. This resonates deeply within me
because being an RHO negative Mother every Gyno MD advised
termination of my unborn a malicious prejudice
even called me hybrid race! the medical database is WRONG
I SAVED three of my children they were born
they live the loves of my life
6. Sing to Me, Sweet Nightingale
Sing to me, sweet nightingale
Sing and drive my fears away;
Sleeping’s but a game with death–
I might wake up, I might not.
If I don’t wake with the sun
My soul will still be grateful
For ’twas your song that gave it
Peace in eternal slumber.
But if I get to wake up
It will be another day
And tonight’s rest will make it
Much different from today.
You see, my sweet nightingale,
One thing is true either way:
You play an important part
In my trusting taunting fate.
So please sing, sweet nightingale
Fill my ears with solitude.
Sing of love.
Sing of joy.
Sing of peace.
Sing of hope.
Short Nightingale Poems
Sometimes, the most profound messages come in the shortest of poems. These short poetries about nightingale capture the essence of the bird’s song and its impact on our lives in just a few lines.
1. A Rose is Not Only for a Summer
by Shofi Ahmed
A night owl in the harvest moon
was awake till the crack of the dawn
but wasn’t surfing online, wasn’t rowing
the boat in the digital river.
Deep down to a dream weaving scene
that was, in musing, painstakingly creative.
Wait till you snap up a witty aphorism.
The darling buds of May will be in bloom.
The tickled pink nightingale too will
give out its voice, singing a song.
Save a copy and tweet it to all,
but do give us a demo, tell us a bit more.
Where does it shine and sizzle?
Where did the winter tuck away the rose?
2. To My Nightingale
by Autumn Rose
wings of white and gold.
singing gay and bold.
Fly away, far from your iron cage.
Fly away, up in the North sky.
One day you will come back,
singing your last requiem to me,
For I shall be there to hear no more.
You are very brave,
and you are very free,
So do not fall into sorrow,
do not fall into eternal repose.
But until then…
– Sing, oh sing,
My sweetest nightingale
high above my broken baroque grave
3. To The Nightingale
by John Milton
O nightingale that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,
Portend success in love. O, if Jove’s will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
by Red Bergan
What a beauty to seek!
The Nightingales have returned
To serve thee!
Nightingale sing your songs…
Haunt the night of the trespass,
Nocturnal is your guide..Tonight
Seek your jewels,
Salvage thy treasure.
Offer it to Nocturnal,
To please her.
Fact or Fiction?
They are quite real.
To see their armor,
To know their symbol.
They are shadows of the night.
Pursuing your every move…
5. A Nightingale
Gentle calls as evening falls.
I heard a nightingale
Far beyond the eaves it cried
in darkness, it prevailed.
It sang to me it’s lullaby
and lo, I listened well,
In shadows where it could not see,
within it’s peaceful spell.
The sound so gently soothing
to a heart that’s troubled so.
It’s song caressed my soul
and seemed a sign, so I would know.
That all our cares are small indeed, compared to many more
Whose pain is deeper than my own,
whose needs go to their very core.
And tho I could not answer,
in a way that it could see
I thank the angel, that sent down,
that nightingale to me.
6. Nightingale’s Voice Haiku
by Mica Walter-Rooks
How very lovely
Is the nightingale’s singing
Yet swans have no voice
I am a nightingale,
singing for a lonely heart
Healing a wound,
with mine open wide
Stitching one by one,
you won’t see
what I’m trying to hide
All you can hear,
is me singing you a lullaby
Humming the deepest note,
just for you to hear
crooning every word,
watching you float
Closing your eyes,
while I kiss you Goodnight
I am a nightingale,
but my heart’s just too frail
Long Nightingale Poems
For those who want to immerse themselves in the world of the nightingale, these long poetries about nightingale offer a deep exploration of the bird’s song and its significance. Lose yourself in the beauty of these epic nightingale poems.
1. Ode to a Nightingale
by John Keats
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret,
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
2. The Frog and The Nightingale
by Vikram Seth
Once upon a time a frog
Croaked away in Bingle Bog
Every night from dusk to dawn
He croaked awn and awn and awn
Other creatures loathed his voice,
But, alas, they had no choice,
And the crass cacophony
Blared out from the sumac tree
At whose foot the frog each night
Minstrelled on till morning night
Neither stones nor prayers nor sticks.
Insults or complaints or bricks
Stilled the frogs determination
To display his heart’s elation.
But one night a nightingale
In the moonlight cold and pale
Perched upon the sumac tree
Casting forth her melody
Dumbstruck sat the gaping frog
And the whole admiring bog
Stared towards the sumac, rapt,
And, when she had ended, clapped,
Ducks had swum and herons waded
To her as she serenaded
And a solitary loon
Wept, beneath the summer moon.
Toads and teals and tiddlers, captured
By her voice, cheered on, enraptured:
“Bravo! ” “Too divine! ” “Encore! “
So the nightingale once more,
Quite unused to such applause,
Sang till dawn without a pause.
Next night when the Nightingale
Shook her head and twitched her tail,
Closed an eye and fluffed a wing
And had cleared her throat to sing
She was startled by a croak.
“Sorry – was that you who spoke? “
She enquired when the frog
Hopped towards her from the bog.
“Yes,” the frog replied. “You see,
I’m the frog who owns this tree
In this bog I’ve long been known
For my splendid baritone
And, of course, I wield my pen
For Bog Trumpet now and then”
“Did you… did you like my song? “
“Not too bad – but far too long.
The technique was fine of course,
But it lacked a certain force”.
“Oh! ” the nightingale confessed.
Greatly flattered and impressed
That a critic of such note
Had discussed her art and throat:
“I don’t think the song’s divine.
But – oh, well – at least it’s mine”.
“That’s not much to boast about”.
Said the heartless frog. “Without
Proper training such as I
– And few others can supply.
You’ll remain a mere beginner.
But with me you’ll be a winner”
“Dearest frog”, the nightingale
Breathed: “This is a fairy tale –
And you are Mozart in disguise
Come to earth before my eyes”.
“Well I charge a modest fee.”
“Oh! ” “But it won’t hurt, you’ll see”
Now the nightingale inspired,
Flushed with confidence, and fired
With both art and adoration,
Sang – and was a huge sensation.
Animals for miles around
Flocked towards the magic sound,
And the frog with great precision
Counted heads and charged admission.
Though next morning it was raining,
He began her vocal training.
“But I can’t sing in this weather”
“Come my dear – we’ll sing together.
Just put on your scarf and sash,
Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash! “
So the frog and nightingale
Journeyed up and down the scale
For six hours, till she was shivering
and her voice was hoarse and quivering.
Though subdued and sleep deprived,
In the night her throat revived,
And the sumac tree was bowed,
With a breathless, titled crowd:
Owl of Sandwich, Duck of Kent,
Mallard and Milady Trent,
Martin Cardinal Mephisto,
And the Coot of Monte Cristo,
Ladies with tiaras glittering
In the interval sat twittering –
And the frog observed them glitter
With a joy both sweet and bitter.
Every day the frog who’d sold her
Songs for silver tried to scold her:
“You must practice even longer
Till your voice, like mine grows stronger.
In the second song last night
You got nervous in mid-flight.
And, my dear, lay on more trills:
Audiences enjoy such frills.
You must make your public happier:
Give them something sharper snappier.
We must aim for better billings.
You still owe me sixty shillings.”
Day by day the nightingale
Grew more sorrowful and pale.
Night on night her tired song
Zipped and trilled and bounced along,
Till the birds and beasts grew tired
At a voice so uninspired
And the ticket office gross
Crashed, and she grew more morose –
For her ears were now addicted
To applause quite unrestricted,
And to sing into the night
All alone gave no delight.
Now the frog puffed up with rage.
“Brainless bird – you’re on the stage –
Use your wits and follow fashion.
Puff your lungs out with your passion.”
Trembling, terrified to fail,
Blind with tears, the nightingale
Heard him out in silence, tried,
Puffed up, burst a vein, and died.
Said the frog: “I tried to teach her,
But she was a stupid creature –
Far too nervous, far too tense.
Far too prone to influence.
Well, poor bird – she should have known
That your song must be your own.
That’s why I sing with panache:
“Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash! “
And the foghorn of the frog
Blared unrivalled through the bog.
3. The Singing Lesson
by Jean Ingelow
A nightingale made a mistake;
She sang a few notes out of tune:
Her heart was ready to break,
And she hid away from the moon.
She wrung her claws, poor thing,
But was far too proud to weep;
She tucked her head under her wing,
And pretended to be asleep.
A lark, arm in arm with a thrush,
Came sauntering up to the place;
The nightingale felt herself blush,
Though feathers hid her face;
She knew they had heard her song,
She felt them snicker and sneer;
She thought that life was too long,
And wished she could skip a year.
“O nightingale!” cooed a dove;
“O nightingale! what’s the use?
You bird of beauty and love,
Why behave like a goose?
Don’t sulk away from our sight,
Like a common, contemptible fowl;
You bird of joy and delight,
Why behave like an owl?
“Only think of all you have done;
Only think of all you can do;
A false note is really fun
From such a bird as you!
Lift up your proud little crest,
Open your musical beak;
Other birds have to do their best,
You need only to speak!”
The nightingale shyly took
Her head from under her wing,
And, giving the dove a look,
Straightway began to sing.
There was never a bird could pass;
The night was divinely calm;
And the people stood on the grass
To hear that wonderful psalm.
The nightingale did not care,
She only sang to the skies;
Her song ascended there,
And there she fixed her eyes.
The people that stood below
She knew but little about;
And this tale has a moral, I know,
If you’ll try and find it out.
4. The Rose and the Nightingale
by Sibyl Vane
“She will dance with me,”
He murmured to himself,
“If I bring her a white rose,
Pure as a snowflake,
And sweet as a summer day.”
Sitting there in the garden,
His blue eyes fell shut
As the wind ran her fingers
Through his dark hair.
His lips parted in a sigh,
Enjoying the warm afternoon sun
And the thoughts of the one he loves.
“His is the song I’ve sung
My entire life,”
Chirped the little nightingale,
“Without knowing it,
I have told his story a thousand times
To the moon and the stars
That light the night sky.
I’ve sung of hope and joy
And True Love and
Happily Ever Afters
To the trees and the flowers
That in this garden grow.”
But the young man cried,
“But I have no rose to give her!”
He covered his face with his hands
His whole body shook
As the hope for real love,
The kind that many people
Spend their whole lives looking for
In all the wrong places,
Flew away in the wind.
“She’ll never realize I am the one for her,
If I cannot find a white rose
And ask her to dance,”
The little nightingale’s heart was touched
By the young lover.
She cried out her song for him,
For all the lost loves in the world.
He, she determined, was not going to be one of them.
The nightingale decided that
She would find him a rose,
With which he could woo the girl he so loved.
She flew on delicate wings to the rose bush
That grew beside the fountain.
“If you would give me a pure white rose,
I will sing you my sweetest song
All the nights of my life.”
But the rose bush answered,
“I have only yellow roses,
Bright as lemons and sunshine,
And sweet as springtime honey.
Ask my brother who climbs the arbor,
He may give you what you desire.”
So the sweet nightingale flew to the rose vine
That was tangled on the arbor.
“If you would give me a pure white rose,
I will sing you my sweetest song
All the nights of my life.”
But the rose vine replied,
“I have only pink roses,
Pink as a maiden’s blush
On the day she weds her beau.
Ask my brother who grows
Under the young man’s window.
He may give you what you desire.”
So the nightingale flew to the rose bush
That grew under the young man’s window.
“If you would give me a pure white rose,
I will sing you my sweetest song
All the nights of my life.”
To which the rose bush replied,
“I have only red roses,
Dark and rich as faerie wine,
Red as the blood of your heart,
Sweeter than stolen kisses under the moon.
But I can give you a white rose.”
Filled with hope and joy,
The nightingale replied,
“I will give anything for a white rose,
What must I do?”
The rose bush shook its petals sadly.
“The way is too awful.
I cannot tell you.”
The nightingale knew the value of love;
She would do anything for the rose.
“There is a way, little bird.
By moonlight you must come close
And press you breast against my thorns.
Love is sharp and you must not be afraid.
You must sing your sweetest song all night,
And press closer to me,
Until my thorn pierces your heart
And all your heart-blood runs out.
It is the only way.”
The nightingale thought about this.
“What price would not be paid for love?
How much greater is the love of this young man
Than the life of a little bird?
This I will gladly do,
For true love’s sake.”
So the nightingale flew across the garden,
Where the lover had not yet dried
The tears from his eyes.
His cheeks were stained
Pink with his sadness,
His eyes shimmered with tears yet unreleased.
She sang to him to be hopeful,
To believe in his love,
And that all will be well.
The blue-eyed young man
Smiled at the nightingale,
For her song was beautiful,
Though he did not understand.
The nightingale flew about the garden,
Enjoying the beauty of life.
She sang to the oak trees and the daffodils,
And they wept that they would not hear her song again.
They were comforted that she would be silenced for love,
For love has no price too great.
The earth ate the last rays of the sun
And the moon shone
Wan and pallid in the night sky.
She, too, was sad to hear only this one last song
From the nightingale.
Then the bird flew to the red rose bush
And pressed her breast against the thorn.
She sang her sweetest song.
It was so beautiful that all the dead lovers of the world
Shuddered in their graves
With the reminder of the love in life,
The wind joined her voice with the nightingale’s
And carried her song to the ends of the the earth,
To the darkest caves where Echo returned it,
To the ocean’s waves that kept the time,
To the peaceful moors where the grass danced along,
To the sleeping child to give her sweet dreams.
Urged the rose bush,
“I must taste your heart’s blood
Or the rose will not be done.”
So the nightingale pressed closer still to the thorn
As the rose bush spun the most beautiful rose
It had ever spun.
But red! A red red rose it was.
Cried the rose bush,
And the nightingale pressed closer until her heart was pricked.
A bolt of pain struck the nightingale
And her song rang out through the garden,
Her melody, sweet with love and anguish,
Reached the ears of the young man.
He sat up in his bed,
And was so moved by the nightingale’s song,
He stayed awake to listen.
As the nightingale’s heart-blood poured onto the rose,
The reddest rose washed white as a freshly fallen snow,
Her tears mingled with the blood,
For only blood can wash out blood,
And only tears can heal.
And so the red rose became white,
As dewdrops and starlight,
As the nightingale’s voice grew faint.
And she fell to the ground as the first breath of dawn
Shone gray on the horizon.
The whole garden heaved a sigh
As the nightingale’s song was done.
A chorus of flowers and crickets and wind
Sang their mournful song
For the little nightingale
Who gave her life for love.
When the sun had risen in the sky,
The young man walked out into the garden
And saw the white rose.
Carefully he cut it, admiring its beauty.
He did not notice the nightingale,
Laying dead on the ground.
He gazed at the rose in awe,
And inhaled its damask perfume.
It smelled of starlight and sweet dreams,
Of mothers’ lullabies and midnight kisses,
Of laughter and heartache,
Of True Love and tender death.
“This is the rose for my beloved,”
He said to himself,
And he prepared himself for the ball.
That night, when the sun had set again,
He met his fair lady, whom he so dearly loved.
“This rose is for you, so that you will dance with me.”
He handed her the rose, the white rose with no thorns.
She took it gently, breathing in its scent.
“Dear boy, I will dance with you tonight.”
He took her hand and led her out onto the floor.
They danced and danced
All through the evening,
More than rules of decency allow.
She smiled and laughed and fell in love.
When the evening closed
And it was time to go home,
She held the white rose close to her heart
And breathed in its sweet perfume.
Her heart was happy
And faintly, a nightingale’s song
Seemed to whisper in her ear.
She grabbed the young man by the hand,
The man whom she loved.
“I will dance with you all the nights of my life,
If you so desire,” she whispered.
“My darling, I desire no more,” the young man smiled,
His blue eyes sparkling in the lamplight.
For love is a silly thing.
It is not half so useful as logic,
But it is twice so important.
True Love tells only things
That are the most true.
It tells of joy and comfort,
But also of sacrifice and pain.
And in this age,
Though to be practical is everything,
Love is the most important of all.
5. The Nightingale
by Mark Akenside
To-night retired, the queen of heaven
With young Endymion stays;
And now to Hesper it is given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of brighter rays….
Propitious send thy golden ray,
Thou purest light above:
Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm;
But lead where music’s healing charm
May soothe afflicted love.
To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vowed,
These lawns, Olympia’s haunt, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walked,
Or fixed, while Philomela talked,
Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs
That roofless tower invade,
We came, while her enchanting Muse
The radiant moon above us held:
Till, by a clamorous owl compelled,
She fled the solemn shade.
But hark! I hear her liquid tone!
Now, Hesper, guide my feet
Down the red marl with moss o’ergrown,
Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.
See the green space: on either hand
Enlarged it spreads around:
See, in the midst she takes her stand,
Where one old oak his awful shade
Extends o’er half the level mead,
Enclosed in woods profound.
Hark! how through many a melting note
She now prolongs her lays:
How sweetly down the void they float!
The breeze their magic path attends;
The stars shine out; the forest bends;
The wakeful heifers gaze.
Whoe’er thou art whom chance may bring
To this sequestered spot,
If then the plaintive Siren sing,
O softly tread beneath her bower
And think of Heaven’s disposing power,
Of man’s uncertain lot.
O think, o’er all this mortal stage
What mournful scenes arise:
What ruin waits on kingly rage;
How often virtue dwells with woe;
How many griefs from knowledge flow;
How swiftly pleasure flies!
O sacred bird! let me at eve,
Thus wandering all alone,
Thy tender counsel oft receive,
Bear witness to thy pensive airs,
And pity Nature’s common cares,
Till I forget my own.
6. The Nightingale
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently.
O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still.
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
‘Most musical, most melancholy’ bird!
A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!
In Nature there is nothing melancholy.
But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain.
And many a poet echoes the conceit;
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretched his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in Nature’s immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature! But ’twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical,
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains.
My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature’s sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance! ’Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music!
And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many nightingales; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other’s song,
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,
And one low piping sound more sweet than all
Stirring the air with such a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed,
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.
A most gentle Maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the grove)
Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes,
That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment’s space,
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon
Emerging, a hath awakened earth and sky
With one sensation, and those wakeful birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if some sudden gale had swept at once
A hundred airy harps! And she hath watched
Many a nightingale perch giddily
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.
Farewell! O Warbler! till tomorrow eve,
And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.That strain again!
Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature’s play-mate. He knows well
The evening-star; and once, when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream)
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,
And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once,
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears,
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!
It is a father’s tale: But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate joy. Once more, farewell,
Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.
7. The Nightingale’s Nest
by John Clare
Up this green woodland-ride let’s softly rove,
And list the nightingale—she dwells just here.
Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love;
For here I’ve heard her many a merry year—
At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day,
As though she lived on song. This very spot,
Just where that old-man’s-beard all wildly trails
Rude arbours o’er the road, and stops the way—
And where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got,
Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails—
There have I hunted like a very boy,
Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn
To find her nest, and see her feed her young.
And vainly did I many hours employ:
All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.
And where those crimping fern-leaves ramp among
The hazel’s under boughs, I’ve nestled down,
And watched her while she sung; and her renown
Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird
Should have no better dress than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,
And feathers stand on end, as ’twere with joy,
And mouth wide open to release her heart
Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part
Of summer’s fame she shared, for so to me
Did happy fancies shapen her employ;
But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred,
All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain:
The timid bird had left the hazel bush,
And at a distance hid to sing again.
Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves,
Rich Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain,
Till envy spurred the emulating thrush
To start less wild and scarce inferior songs;
For while of half the year Care him bereaves,
To damp the ardour of his speckled breast;
The nightingale to summer’s life belongs,
And naked trees, and winter’s nipping wrongs,
Are strangers to her music and her rest.
Her joys are evergreen, her world is wide—
Hark! there she is as usual—let’s be hush—
For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guest,
Her curious house is hidden. Part aside
These hazel branches in a gentle way,
And stoop right cautious ’neath the rustling boughs,
For we will have another search to day,
And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round;
And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows,
We’ll wade right through, it is a likely nook:
In such like spots, and often on the ground,
They’ll build, where rude boys never think to look—
Aye, as I live! her secret nest is here,
Upon this white-thorn stump! I’ve searched about
For hours in vain. There! put that bramble by—
Nay, trample on its branches and get near.
How subtle is the bird! she started out,
And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh,
Ere we were past the brambles; and now, near
Her nest, she sudden stops—as choking fear,
That might betray her home. So even now
We’ll leave it as we found it: safety’s guard
Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still.
See there! she’s sitting on the old oak bough,
Mute in her fears; our presence doth ******
Her joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill.
Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befall
Thy visions, than the fear that now deceives.
We will not plunder music of its dower,
Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall;
For melody seems hid in every flower,
That blossoms near thy home. These harebells all
Seem bowing with the beautiful in song;
And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves,
Seems blushing of the singing it has heard.
How curious is the nest; no other bird
Uses such loose materials, or weaves
Its dwelling in such spots: dead oaken leaves
Are placed without, and velvet moss within,
And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare,
What scarcely seem materials, down and hair;
For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win.
Yet Nature is the builder, and contrives
Homes for her children’s comfort, even here;
Where Solitude’s disciples spend their lives
Unseen, save when a wanderer passes near
That loves such pleasant places. Deep adown,
The nest is made a hermit’s mossy cell.
Snug lie her curious eggs in number five,
Of deadened green, or rather olive brown;
And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.
So here we’ll leave them, still unknown to wrong,
As the old woodland’s legacy of song.
Nightingale Poems That Rhyme
Hear the melodious sounds of the nightingale come to life through poetry that rhymes. Discover the beauty of this bird’s song with these poems about nightingale with rhyming words.
by Richard Barnfield
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn
Leaned her breast up—till a thorn,
And there sung the doleful’st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;
Tereu, Tereu! by and by;
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead,
All thy friends are lapped in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
2. Bird Raptures
by Christina Rossetti
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, every thing
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 to-night the nightingale.
3. To the Nightingale
by William Drummond
Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends,
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight:
If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne’er, not in a dream, did taste delight,
May thee importune who like care pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe’s despite;
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,
And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains,
Since, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky
Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains?
The bird, as if my questions did her move,
With trembling wings sobbed forth, I love! I love!
4. The Dwarf of Nightingale
by David Lewis Paget
Nightingale was a hunting lodge
At the time of Baron Blood,
He was holed up there for a month or so
While the Tamar was in flood,
His knights went after a suckling pig
That they brought back to the Hall,
‘We’d best be merry and feast, my Lord,
Or there’ll be no fun at all.’
The waters rose and it cut them off
By the monastery at Bede,
So they made to raid the Monk’s own stocks
And they carried back the mead,
The hounds lay panting around the hearth
And the knights caroused ‘til dawn,
But the waters of the Tamar lay
Close round them every morn.
A cottage lay on the old floodway
By the side of a river wharf,
The waters drove a yeoman out
And his wife, a pretty dwarf,
They made their way to the hunting lodge
And begged that they might come in,
‘I’m Olaf, you are my liege, my Lord
And my wife is Tamerlin.’
‘And what do you bring?’ said Baron Blood,
Who looked for a little sport,
‘We’re all entombed ‘til the waters fall,
‘So what do you bring to court?’
‘I’m simply a yeoman, with one hide
That’s drowned in the river mud,
Along with my only ploughshare…’
‘That’s a pity,’ said Baron Blood.
‘What of the geld you owe to me,
And how do you think you’ll pay?’
‘I throw myself on your mercy, Lord,
To pay you another day.
The river flooded the pasture, and
My crop lies under the mud,’
‘Perhaps your wife has a way to pay,’
Said the musing Baron Blood.
‘You’ll wait at table and serve the mead
And carve the suckling pig,
And feed the hounds at the hearth tonight
While your wife can show a leg,
We’ll have her dancing from dusk to dawn
Each knight can take his turn,
For Tamerlin pays your geld tonight
If she lasts from dusk ‘til dawn.’
Then Olaf looked at his Tamerlin
And he brushed away a tear,
But she looked bold at the Baron Blood,
‘I will stand the test, no fear!’
They helped to set up the feast that night
And they whispered soft and low,
‘If one should harm a hair of your head
I will ****, before I go!’
She put one finger up to her lips
And she whispered, ‘I’ll be true!
I’ll not be whirled off my feet by one
Who is half the man as you.’
She took a skewer and she stuck the pig
Right through to the other side,
‘I may be small but my heart is big
And I’m still your darling bride.’
The sun went down and the mead came out
As he went to feed the hounds,
The Baron called on a lute to play
From a doorway to the grounds,
Then Tamerlin had begun to dance
And sway as she said she would,
Her dress had swished on the earthen floor,
Out where the Baron stood.
The knights were steadily getting drunk
And the Baron stood and swayed,
‘Now hitch that dress to your waist,’ he said,
‘If you want your geld to be paid.’
She dropped her eyes and she blushed, and cried
But she lifted up her dress,
To show the legs that were short, deformed
And the Baron laughed, no less!
The Baron laughed and the knights had laughed
At the legs of Tamerlin,
She dropped the dress and she burst in tears
And she cried, ‘You’ve seen my sin!’
They didn’t ask her to dance again
But they drank until the morn,
Then fell about in a drunken swoon
As she lay apart, forlorn.
A silence fell as the sun came up
When she rose and took a skewer,
Walked to the sleeping Baron, and
She ****** it in his ear,
She ****** it in til it came on out
All blood on the other side,
‘You won’t be laughing again,’ she said,
‘Or shaming Olaf’s bride!’
They took a skewer to every knight
And they did the same to them,
In, and out at the other side,
A Hall of skewered men,
The waters, they were receding as
Her head, in pride upheld,
Remarked, ‘It’s time we were leaving,
We have truly paid the geld!’
Nightingale was a hunting lodge
That sank in a sea of mud,
You’d have to dig right down to find
The body of Baron Blood,
The woods grew up in the pasture fields
And covered the grisly tale,
Where lovers walk and will cease their talk
At the song of a Nightingale.
5. O Nightingale! Thou Surely Art
by William Wordsworth
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!
6. Nightingale’s Wing
by Bianchi Blue
If the sun does not, then the moonlight will
fall on my chest as a nightingale sings
with delight in knowing your beauty still
in this darkness – my breath is held until
you delight in what your desires bring
if the moon does not, then the daylight will
wrap you in warmth while the heavens are spilled
in your heart as all the secrets of spring
find delight in knowing your beauty still
with each heartbeat drawing closer to fill
in your spirit with what you are longing
for if the day does not, the starlight will
reach into your soul through your window sill
to grant my wish on a nightingale’s wing
yet if the stars do not, I always will
find delight in knowing your beauty still
7. The Nightingale’s Song to the Sick Soldier
Listen soldier to the tale of tendor nightingale
Tis a charm that soon will ease your wounds so cruel,
Singing medicine for your pain in a sympathetic strain
with a jug, jug, jug of lemonade or gruel.
Singing bandages and lint; salve and stearate without stint
Singing plenty both of liniment and lotion.
And your mixtures pushes about
And the pills for you served out
With alacrity and promptitute of motion
Singing light and gentle hands, and a nurse who understands
How to manage every sort of application.
From a poultice to leach, whom you haven’t got to teach,
The way to make a poppy fomentation.
Singing pillow for you smoothed; smart and anguish smoothed,
By the rediness of feminine invention.
Singing fever thirst allayed, and the bed you’ve tumbled made
With a cheerful and considerate attention.
Singing succour to the brave and a rescue from the grave,
Hear the nightingale that’s come to the crimea.
Tis a nightingale as strong in her heart as in her song,
To carry out so gallant an idea.
Nightingale Poems for Kids
Introduce children to the wonders of poetry and nature with these charming nightingale poems for preschool or first grades. From playful to educational, these poems are perfect for kids.
1. Florence Nightingale
Long ago there was a soldier
Fighting in a war.
His name was Bert, and he got hurt,
His leg was very sore.
They took him to a hospital
And put him in a bed.
They hoped he would get better but
He got much worse instead.
It was a nasty, smelly place
Everything was dirty –
The floors, the beds, the bandages,
Poor old injured Bertie.
Onto the bed jumped three big rats
They laughed at Bert and said
“We’ll give you a nasty disease
And soon you will be dead.”
Poor Bert was very scared indeed,
The rats were right, he feared.
He thought that he was going to die
But then, a light appeared.
It was a lady with a lamp
Called Florence Nightingale.
She took one look at the rats, and
Picked them up, by the tail.
“No rats allowed in here,” she said
“On this I’m quite determined.
From now on this place will be kept
Clean, safe, and de-vermined.”
The rats saw that she meant business
And ran away in fear.
Then Florence smiled and Bertie said,
“I’m really glad you’re here.”
She gave him a nice clean bandage
And ointment for the pain.
And it was not too long before
Bertie felt well again.
Florence Nightingale was the best
Nurse there had ever been.
But she did so much more than just
Keep one hospital clean.
She wrote great books about nursing
And opened up a school.
She made it seem like being a nurse
Was really really cool!
Nowadays all of us can thank
The lady with the lamp
That hospitals are clean and fresh
And not dirty and damp.
Nowadays we think cleanliness
Seems like just common sense
But it would have all been different
Were it not for Florence.
2. Nightingale to My Heart
by Paolo Garcia
Thou Lil’ Nightingale,
Heed my heart.
Hope I, sound not desperate.
O, tend to my wounds;
Wish I, thine hand be held.
Implore I, soothe my pain;
Two ears that hark!
Thy mouth, speak of stories.
I wilt vow to always remember you;
I wilt vow to always love you;
Swear no love but yours wilt do.
If I wert your Nightingale,
O’er these mountains, I would fly.
I would find you, I would find you.
Fair and Tender;
I wish thou be Nightingale to my Heart.
by Shofi Ahmed
You’re nothing but a rose
I stepped on the thorn
and came out
to be your nightingale.
It’s all yours all in all
just give me a call!
Nothing can hurt me more
then when your shadow
isn’t in the shadow of mine.
Without you my rainbow
has no colour.
But if you come back you will
find the earth in bloom
You will see the sun is in a dew
Come back, like you do
smelling of rose.
Just give me a call.
I heard you say
the sun is out basking
down on the blue sea.
I wonder what more
I am missing
with my limited vision!
But when you ring
the bell on my door
I can see the sunrise
in the little peephole.
Come now, just give me a call.
4. The Nightingale
by Katharine Tynan Hinkson
The speckled bird sings in the tree
When all the stars are silver-pale.
Come, children, walk the night with me,
And we shall hear the nightingale.
The nightingale is a shy bird,
He flits before you through the night.
And now the sleepy vale is stirred
Through all its green and gold and white.
The moon leans from her place to hear,
The stars shed golden star-dust down,
For now comes in the sweet o’ the year,
The country’s gotten the greenest gown.
The blackbird turns upon his bed,
The thrush has oped a sleeping eye,
Quiet each downy sleepy-head;
But who goes singing up the sky?
It is, it is the nightingale,
In the tall tree upon the hill.
To moonlight and the dewy vale
The nightingale will sing his fill.
He’s but a homely, speckled bird,
But he has gotten a golden flute,
And when his wondrous song is heard,
Blackbird and thrush and lark are mute.
Troop, children dear, out to the night,
Clad in the moonlight silver-pale,
And in the world of green and white
‘Tis you shall hear the nightingale.
Nightingale poems are a testament to the power of nature and poetry in capturing the human experience.
These poems allow us to connect with the natural world and explore the depths of our own emotions, from the melancholy of the night to the beauty of the nightingale’s song.
Whether we seek inspiration, humor, or a moment of reflection, there is a nightingale poem for everyone.
From the famous works of the Romantic poets to modern-day rhyming verses, poems about nightingale continue to inspire and move us.
So take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the night and let the nightingale’s song transport you to a world of poetry and wonder.