Prometheus Unbound

There the voluptuous nightingales, Are awake through all the broad noonday. [2.2.25] When one with bliss or sadness fails, And through the windless ivy-boughs, Sick with sweet love, droops dying away On its mate’s music-panting bosom; Another from the swinging blossom, [2.2.30] Watching to catch the languid close Of the last strain, then lifts on high The wings of the weak melody, ’Till some new strain of feeling bear The song, and all the woods are mute; [2.2.35] When there is heard through the dim air The rush of wings, and rising there Like many a lake-surrounded flute, Sounds overflow the listener’s brain So sweet, that joy is almost pain. [2.2.40]