Bianca Among The Nightingales

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    <strong>Bianca Among The Nightingales</strong>

    The cypress stood up like a church

    That night we felt our love would hold,

    And saintly moonlight seemed to search

    And wash the whole world  as gold;

    The olives crystallized the vales

    Broad slopes until the hills grew strong:

    The fireflies and the nightingales

    Throbbed each to either, flame and song.

    The nightihe nightingales.

    Upon the angle of its shade

    The cypress stood, self-balanced high;

    Half up, half down, as double-made,

    Along the ground<samp></samp>, against the sky.

    Aoo! from such soul-height went

    Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven,

    We scarew if our nature meant

    Most passionate earth or intense heaven.

    The nightihe nightingales.

    We paled with love, we shook with love,

    We kissed so close we could not vow;

    Till Giulio whispered, Sweet, above

    Gods Ever guarahis Now.

    And through his words the nightingales

    Drove straight and full their long clear call,

    Like arrows through heroic mails,

    And love was awful in it all.

    The nightihe nightingales.

    O cold white moonlight of the north,

    Refresh these pulses, quench this hell!

    O coverture of death drawn forth

    Across this garden-chamber... well!

    But what have nightio do

    In gloomy England, called the free.

    (Yes, free to die in!...) whewo

    Are sundered, singing still to me?

    And still they sing, the nightingales.

    I think I hear him, how he cried

    My own souls life between their notes.

    Each man has but one soul supplied,

    And thats immortal. Though his throats

    On fire with passion now, to her

    He t say what to me he said!

    A he moves her, they aver.

    The nightingales sing through my head.

    The nightihe nightingales.

    He says to her what moves her most.

    He would not name his soul within

    Her hearing,&amp;mdash;rather pays her cost

    With praises to her lips and .

    Man has but one soul, tis ordained,

    And each soul but one love, I add;

    Yet souls are damned and loves profaned.

    These nightingales will sing me mad!

    The nightihe nightingales.

    I marvel how the birds  sing.

    Theres little difference, in their view,

    Betwixt our Tus 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 tent

    Is he too in this land, tis clear.

    And still they sing, the nightingales.

    My native Florence! dear, fone!

    I see across <figure></figure>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 littering towers.

    I will not hear these nightingales.

    I seem to float, we seem to float

    Down Arnos stream iive guise;

    A boat strikes flame into our boat,

    And up that lady seems to rise

    As then she rose. The shock had flashed

    A vision on us! What a head,

    What leaping eyeballs!&amp;mdash;beauty dashed

    To splendour by a sudden dread.

    And still they sing, the nightingales.

    Too bold to sin, too weak to die;

    Suen are so. As for me,

    I would we had drowhere, he and I,

    That moment, loving perfectly.

    He had not caught her with her loosed

    Glets... rarer in the south...

    Nor heard the Grazie tanto bruised

    To sweetness by her English mouth.

    And still they sing, the nightingales.

    She had not reached him at my heart

    With her fiongue, as snakes indeed

    Kill flies; nor had I, for my part,

    Yearned after, in my desperate need,

    And followed him as he did her

    To coasts left bitter by the tide,

    Whose very nightingales, elsewhere

    Delighting, torture and deride!

    For still they sing, the nightingales.

    A worthless woman! mere cold clay

    As all false things are! but so fair,

    She takes the breath of men away

    Who gaze upon her unaware.

    I would not play her larous tricks

    To have her looks! She lied and stole,

    And spat into<samp>99lib?</samp> my loves pure pyx

    The rank saliva of her soul.

    And still they sing, the nightingales.

    I would not for her white and pink,

    Though such he likes&amp;mdash;her grace of limb,

    Though such he has praised&amp;mdash;nor yet, I think,

    For life itself, though spent with him,

    it such sacrilege, affront

    Gods nature which is love, intrude

    Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt

    Like spiders, iars wood.

    I ot bear these nightingales.

    If she chose sin, some gentler guise

    She might have sinned in, so it seems:

    She might have pricked out both my eyes,

    And I still seen him in my dreams!

    - ed<cite>9９ｌib.</cite> me in my soup or wine,

    Nor left me angry afterward:

    To die here with his hand in mine

    His breath upon me, were not hard.

    (Our Lady hush these nightingales!)

    But set a springe for him, mio ben,

    My only good, my first last love!&amp;mdash;

    Though Christ knows well what sin is, when

    He sees some things dohey must move

    Himself to wonder. Let her pass.

    I think of her by night and day.

    Must I too join her... out, alas!...

    With Giulio, in each word I say!

    And evermore the nightingales!

    Giulio, my Giulio!&amp;mdash;sing they so,

    And you be silent? Do I speak,

    And you not hear? An arm you throw

    Round some one, and I feel so weak?

    - Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite,

    They sing fo<figure></figure>r hate, they sing for doom!

    Theyll sing through death who sing through night,

    Theyll sing and stun me iomb&amp;mdash;

    The nightihe nightingales!

    <strong>Elizabeth Barrett Browning</strong>

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