poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

The Nightingale

Sir Philip Sidney
The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth 
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, 
While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, 
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making, 
And mournfully bewailing, 
Her throat in tunes expresseth 
What grief her breast oppresseth 
For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. 
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, 
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: 
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; 
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. 

Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish 
But Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken, 
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish; 
Full womanlike complains her will was broken. 
But I, who daily craving, 
Cannot have to content me, 
Have more cause to lament me, 
Since wanting is more woe than too much having. 
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, 
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: 
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; 
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Sir Philip Sidney

by this poet

poem
Dominus regit me

The Lord the Lord my shepherd is,
   And so can never I
      Taste misery.
He rests me in green pasture His.
   By waters still and sweet
      He guides my feet.

He me revives, leads me the way
   Which righteousness doth take,
      For His name's sake.
Yea though I should through
poem

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:
   My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his