By the Arno by Oscar Wilde

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The oleander on the wall / Grows crimson in the dawning light, / Though the grey shadows of the night / Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

The dew is bright upon the hill, / And bright the blossoms overhead, / But ah! the grasshoppers have fled, / The little Attic song is still.

Only the leaves are gently stirred / By the soft breathing of the gale, / And in the almond-scented vale / The lonely nightingale is heard.

The day will make thee silent soon, / O nightingale sing on for love!

While yet upon the shadowy grove / Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn / In sea-green vest the morning steals, / And to love's frightened eyes reveals / The long white fingers of the dawn / Fast climbing up the eastern sky / To grasp and slay the shuddering night, / All careless of my heart's delight, / Or if the nightingale should die.

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