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.

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.

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies.

And lo, the Hospital, gray, quiet, old, Where life and death like friendly chafferers meet.

O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one." (Between the Dusk of a Summer Night, 13-16)

Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain.

This is the merit and distinction of art: to be more real than reality, to be not nature but nature's essence.