William Wordsworth (Уильям Вордсворт)

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O Nightingale! thou surely art
A creature of a "fiery heart":—
These notes of thine—they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
Had helped thee to a Valentine;
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but cooed—and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song — the song for me!

1. On the Final Submission of the Tyrolese
2. The Vaudois
3. Upon the Sight of a Beautiful Picture Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart
4. Stanzas Written in My Pocket Copy of Thomson’s “Castle of Indolence”
5. Alice Fell, or Poverty

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