Poem by Anne Reeve Aldrich

A Song about Singing

O nightingale, the poet's bird,
A kinsman dear thou art,
Who never sings so well as when
The rose-thorns bruise his heart.
But since thy agony can make
A listening world so blest,
Be sure it cares but little for
Thy wounded, bleeding breast!

1. The Eternal Justice
2. Servitude
3. Love's Change
4. Recollection
5. Suppose

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