Night after night the nightingale came to beg for divine love, but though the rose trembled at the sound of his voice, her petals remained closed to him...Flower and bird, two species never meant to mate. Yet at length the rose overcame her fear and from that single, forbidden union was born the red rose that Allah never intended the world to know.
Ye living lamps, by whose dear light The nightingale does sit so late, And studying all the summer night, Her matchless songs does meditate. 556Andrew Marvell
Car crime's low, gun crime's lower,The town hall band CD, it's a grower,you never hear of folk getting knocked on the bonce,although there was a drive-by shouting once,but there's a brass band everywhere,and I don't drive so I don't care,and as a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square,what is Chatteris if you're not there?nigel blackwell
A nightingale dies for shame if another bird sings better.robert burton
O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warbl'st at eve, when all the woods are still.john milton
A Locanian having plucked all the feathers off from a nightingale and seeing what a little body it had, "surely," quoth he, "thou art all voice and nothing else." (Vox et præterea nihil.)
Like a wedding-song all-melting Sings the nightingale, the dear one.Heinrich Heine
Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth.john keats
To the red rising moon, and loud and deep The nightingale is singing from the steep.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The nightingale as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making. And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth.
The rose looks out in the valley, And thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe.
Last night the nightingale woke me, Last night, when all was still. It sang in the golden moonlight, From out the woodland hill.
The splash and stir Of fountains spouted up and showering down In meshes of the jasmine and the rose: And all about us peal'd the nightingale, Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare.
The nightingale has a lyre of gold, The lark's is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, But I love him best of all. For his song is all the joy of life, And we in the mad spring weather, We two have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.
When the swallows homeward fly, When the roses scattered lie, When from neither hill or dale, Chants the silvery nightingale: In these words my bleeding heart Would to thee its grief impart; When I thus thy image lose Can I, ah! can I, e'er know repose?
He stood beside a cottage lone, and listened to a lute, one summer's eve, when the breeze was gone, and the nightingale was mute.
He was known to his countrymen as the nightingale, but his own sweet-sounding name of Bird's-meadow (Vogelweide) suggests even more directly the pure, true, flute-like strain which he poured into Europe’s choir of voices.walther von der vogelweide
I said to the nightingale: "Hail, all hail! Pierce with thy trill the dark, Like a glittering music-spark, When the earth grows pale and dumb."
O nightingale, Cease from thy enamoured tale.
When all the medical officers have retired for the night, and silence and darkness have settled down upon those miles of prostrate sick, she [Florence nightingale] may be observed alone, with a little lamp in her hand, making her solitary rounds.
He was known to his countrymen as the nightingale, but his own sweet-sounding name of Bird's-meadow ( Vogelweide ) suggests even more directly the pure, true, flute-like strain which he poured into Europe’s choir of voices.
When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assured for Itylus, For theThracian ships and the foreign faces, The tongueless vigil and all the pain.algernon charles swinburne
The nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season'd are To their right praise, and true perfection!william shakespeare