The nightingale sang to the rose
Through the livelong night,
Till her hue from a ruby red
Turned wan and white.
All night it rose and fell —
That silvery strain,
And the heart of the red rose throbbed
With divinest pain;
"O Love, O Love!" it rang,
"I love but thee.
Thou art the queen of all flowers," he sang,
"And queen of me!
O Love, my Love!" he said.
— Before the dawn,
The rose on its stalk hung dead,
The bird was gone.