No More Learning

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 passion 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 damned 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.
The luminous city, tall with fire,
Trod deep down in that river of ours,
While many a boat with lamp and choir
Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers.