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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=538450" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To The Nightingale</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=538450" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours<br>Of winters past or coming, void of care,<br>Well pleased with delights which present are,<br>(Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers)<br>To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers<br>Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,<br>And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare:<br>A stain to human sense in sin that lours,<br>What soul can be so sick which by thy songs<br>(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven<br>Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,<br>And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?<br>Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise<br>To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=William+Henry+Drummond">William Henry Drummond</a></strong></div>

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