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Слушать(AI)O Nightingale My Heart
O Nightingale my
How sad thou art!
How heavy is thy wing,
Desperately whirrëd that thy throat may
Song to the tingling silences remote!
Thine eye whose ruddy
Burned fiery of late,
How dead and dark!
Why so soon didst thou sing,
And with such turbulence of love and hate?
Learn that there is no singing yet can
The expected dawn more near;
And thou art spent already, though the
Scarce has begun;
What voice, what eyes wilt thou have for the
When the light shall appear,
And O what wings to bear thee t'ward the Sun?
Robert Nichols
Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols (6 September 1893 – 17 December 1944) was an English writer, known as a war poet of the First World War, and a play
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Farewell
For the last time, maybe, upon the knollI stand The eve is golden, languid, sad Day like a tragic actor plays his To the last whispered word and falls gold-clad
Fulfilment
Was there love once I have forgotten her Was there grief once Grief yet is mine
Battery Moving Up to a New Position from Rest CampDawn
Not a sign of life we In any square close-shuttered That flanks the road we amble Toward far trenches through the town
The Flower Of Flame
AS round the cliff I came The whole bay bared its blaze to me; Loud sang the wind, the wild sun The tumbled clouds fled scattering on,
