Song of the Nightingale
As hand so soft cross golden harp doth play,
The song of nightingale o’er the wood flown ,
And as she composed with magical strain,
I thought I must have her all to my own.
With haste I did lure her in behind bars.
Content with my prize, her pleas I ignored,
But as day passed on day her eyes grew dark,
No sweet melody from her throat would pour.
So I let fly my love from my own hand,
And, though before her the world now stands free
To search and see works both of God and man,
She seeks, and with song returns faithfully.
So let the lesson be told age to age,
There be some beauty not meant for a cage.
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