| Alone I sit at eventide; The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide I hear the bobolinks— (We have no nightingales!) Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old manse on the lea Flies slow the cawing crow— (In England 'twere a rook!) The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men— (Alas! we have no swains!) From farmyards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids Sweeter than catbird's strains— (I should say Philomel's!) I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun's bright flame And heard the oriole— (Alas! we have no lark!) We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books) The poet does his best:— It is the rhyme that fails. Nathan Haskell Dole. |
