Sing Soft The Nightingale, Page 1 Of 2 Poem by John Bliven Morin

On the evening breeze, a song,
O’er the meadow,
O’er the meadow;
Sing soft the nightingale,
“I am the bird of paradise,
I am the bird of birds.”

Saith the green grass beneath the arbors,
“Oh, thou beauteous bird,
Thou wondrous bird,
Thou foolish bird,
For when comes the winter
Thou shalt have naught to eat.”

But the nightingale moved on.

And soon again,
On the evening breeze, a song,
By the willow,
By the willow,
Sing soft the nightingale,
“I am the bird of paradise,
I am the bird of birds.”

Saith the leaning willow by the stone wall,
“Oh, thou beauteous bird,
Thou wondrous bird,
Thou foolish bird,
For when comes the winter
Thou shalt have naught to eat.”

But the nightingale heeded not.

On the evening breeze, a song,
By the brooklet,
By the brooklet,
Sing soft the nightingale,
“I am the bird of paradise,
I am the bird of birds.”

Saith the rushing brooklet on its way,
“Oh, thou beauteous bird,
Thou wondrous bird,
Thou foolish bird,
For when comes the winter
Thou shalt find naught to eat.”

But the nightingale flew away.