III

  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 help'd 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!                   10



  I heard a Stockdove 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 coo'd--and coo'd;
  And somewhat pensively he woo'd:
  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!                      20

• About William Wordsworth