A voice In the dark

Melody of woe

The Nightingale sang her song
For all the world to hear.
She sang it loud, she sang it true
To all that had an ear.

Until one day that glory-bird,
She landed on a wire,
And not just any wire was this,
But barbed, and cut like fire.

Her song-tune changed, with desperate cry.
Again, she rent the air,
But beauty did her song now lack
And was no longer fair.

Reflected in that song so bitter
The burning of her chest,
The aching, jagged, gushing hole
Through which she stained her vest.

Once snowy-white, now red with blood,
Her head, it sagged so low.
And with one squeak, her eyes did close.
No more were they to glow.

And though her magic song is gone,
No more to bless the ear,
No one will miss her voice or tune
Nor mourn her passing here.

For many other birds will sing
And most as sweet as she,
But ne'er again will it be heard
That voice that was so free.

And there she stayed, on thorn so hard
Until she fell away.
Only a mark, a stain of red
Shows truly where she lay.