Volume IV Part 22 (2/2)

Upon the angle of its shade The cypress stood, self-balanced high; Half up, half down, as double-made, Along the ground, against the sky; And _we_, too! from such soul-height went Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven, We scarce knew if our nature meant Most pa.s.sionate earth or intense heaven The nightingales, the nightingales!

III.

We paled with love, we shook with love, We kissed so close we could not vow; Till Giulio whispered ”Sweet, above G.o.d's Ever guaranties this Now.”

And through his words the nightingales Drove straight and full their long clear call, Like arrows through heroic mails, And love was awful in it all.

The nightingales, the nightingales!

IV.

O cold white moonlight of the north, Refresh these pulses, quench this h.e.l.l!

O coverture of death drawn forth Across this garden-chamber ... well!

But what have nightingales to do In gloomy England, called the free ...

(Yes, free to die in!...) when we two Are sundered, singing still to me?

And still they sing, the nightingales!

V.

I think I hear him, how he cried ”My own soul's life!” between their notes.

Each man has but one soul supplied, And that's immortal. Though his throat's On fire with pa.s.sion now, to _her_ He can't say what to me he said!

And yet he moves her, they aver.

The nightingales sing through my head,-- The nightingales, the nightingales!

VI.

He says to her what moves her most.

He would not name his soul within Her hearing,--rather pays her cost With praises to her lips and chin.

Man has but one soul, 't is ordained, And each soul but one love, I add; Yet souls are d.a.m.ned and love's profaned; These nightingales will sing me mad!

The nightingales, the nightingales!

VII.

I marvel how the birds can sing.

There's little difference, in their view, Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring As vital flames into the blue, And dull round blots of foliage meant, Like saturated sponges here, To suck the fogs up. As content Is he too in this land, 't is clear.

And still they sing, the nightingales.

VIII.

My native Florence! dear, forgone!

I see across the Alpine ridge How the last feast-day of Saint John Shot rockets from Carraia bridge.

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