Though such he has praised—nor yet, I think,

Her hearing,—rather pays her cost

I think of her by night and day.

That moment, loving perfectly.

She takes the breath of men away

I would not play her larcenous tricks

And still they sing, the nightingales.

The cypress stood, self-balanced high;

Such women are so. As for me,

- Or drugged me in my soup or wine,

Like saturated sponges here

I see across the Alpine ridge

Upon the angle of its shade

And love was awful in it all.

For still they sing, the nightingales.

With Giulio, in each word I say!

Delighting, torture and deride!

Man has but one soul, tis ordained,

She might have sinned in, so it seems:

And followed him as he did her

If she chose sin, some gentler guise

And we, too! from such soul-height went

Like arrows through heroic mails,

Too bold to sin, too weak to httｐs://ｒｅad•9９csw•ｃoｍdie;

The luminous city, tall with fire,

And still they sing, the nightingales.

Across this garden-chamber... well!

And yet he moves her, they aver.

With her fine tongue, as snakes indeed

And wash the whole world clean as gold;

And you be silent? Do I speak,

And thats immortal. Though his throats

The nightingales, the nightingales.

She might have pricked out both my eyes,

And evermore the nightingales!

His breath upon me, were not hard.

Throbbed each to either, flame and song.

Nor heard the Grazie tanto bruised

I would not for her white and pink,

The cypress stood up like a church

Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring

That night we felt our love would hold,

Down Arnos stream in festive guise;

And you not hear? An arm you throw

For life itself, though spent with him,

Though Christ knows well what sin is, when

We kissed so close we could not vow;

A vision on us!九_九_藏_書 What a head,

We scarce knew if our nature meant

A worthless woman! mere cold clay

The nightingales, the nightingales!

What leaping eyeballs!—beauty dashed

(Our Lady hush these nightingales!)

To coasts left bitter by the tide,

And still they sing, the nightingales.

Who gaze upon her unaware.

Gods nature which is love, intrude

But set a springe for him, mio ben,

Round some one, and I feel so weak?

My native Florence! dear, forgone!

Gold ringlets... rarer in the south...

I think I hear him, how he cried

Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers.

Though such he likes—her grace of limb,

And up that lady seems to rise

But what have nightingales to do

My own souls life between their notes.

Half up, half down, as double-made,

Whose very nightingales, elsewhere

Drove straight and full their long clear call,

He cant say what to me he said!

The fireflies and the nigh九_九_藏_書tingales

Along the ground, against the sky.

He had not caught her with her loosed

With praises to her lips and chin.

Commit such sacrilege, affront

The rank saliva of her soul.

I cannot bear these nightingales.

Gods Ever guarantees this Now.

I will not hear these nightingales.

I marvel how the birds can sing.

Theres little difference, in their view,

Giulio, my Giulio!—sing they so,

O cold white moonlight of the north,

Broad slopes until the hills grew strong:

We paled with love, we shook with love,

And still they sing, the nightingales.

(Yes, free to die in!...) when we two

I seem to float, we seem to float

The nightingales sing through my head.

Kill flies; nor had I, for my part,

Yearned after, in my desperate need,

Like spiders, in the altars wood.

Most passionate earth or intense heaven.

And still they sing, the nightingales.

The nightingales, the nightingales.

A boat 九-九-藏-書strikes flame into our boat,

My only good, my first last love!—

And dull round blots of foliage meant

To suck the fogs up. As content

Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven,

In gloomy England, called the free.

He says to her what moves her most.

Refresh these pulses, quench this hell!

On fire with passion now, to her

The olives crystallized the vales

Shot rockets from Carraia bridge.

Theyll sing through death who sing through night,

As all false things are! but so fair,

How the last feast-day of Saint John

And through his words the nightingales

Each man has but one soul supplied,

Trod deep down in that river of ours,

These nightingales will sing me mad!

While many a boat with lamp and choir

- Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite,

He would not name his soul within

The nightingales, the nightingales.

Is he too in this land, tis clear.

And I still seen him in my dreams!

As then 九_九_藏_書she rose. The shock had flashed

I would we had drowned there, he and I,

O coverture of death drawn forth

He sees some things done they must move

And each soul but one love, I add;

She had not reached him at my heart

Nor left me angry afterward:

Himself to wonder. Let her pass.

Are sundered, singing still to me?

Till Giulio whispered, Sweet, above

Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt

To die here with his hand in mine

Yet souls are damned and loves profaned.

To sweetness by her English mouth.

As vital flames into the blue,

The nightingales, the nightingales.

And saintly moonlight seemed to search

Theyll sing and stun me in the tomb—

To splendour by a sudden dread.

They sing for hate, they sing for doom!

To have her looks! She lied and stole,

And spat into my loves pure pyx

Must I too join her... out, alas!...

The nightingales, the nightingales.