_The moonbeams over Arno’s vale in silver flood were pouring,
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring:
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie,
I longed to hear a simpler strain, the wood-notes of the veery._
_The laverock sings a bonny lay, above the Scottish heather,
It sprinkles from the dome of day like light and love together;
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his
dearie;
I only know one song more sweet, the vespers of the veery._
_In English gardens green and bright, and rich in fruity
treasure,
I’ve heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure;_
_The ballad was a lively one, the tune was loud and cheery,
And yet with every setting sun I listened for the veery._
_O far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing,
New England woods at close of day with that clear chant are
ringing;
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery._
1895.