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

Last was heard the nightingale,
On the crisp, cold air, a song,
Through the blizzard,
Through the blizzard,
Sing low the nightingale,
“I am the bird of paradise,
I am the bird of birds.”

Saith the creatures of the forest,
“Oh, thou beauteous bird,
Thou wondrous bird,
Thou foolish bird,
Came sure the winter
And thou found not food nor shelter.”

But the nightingale lay dead upon the snow,
His song, a memory.