Bianca Among The Nightingales
The
cypress
stood
up
like
a
church
That
night
we
felt
our
love
would
hold,
And
saintly
moonlight
seemed
to
search
And
wash
the
whole
world
clean
as
gold;
The
olives
crystallized
the
vales'
Broad
slopes
until
the
hills
grew
strong:
The
fireflies
and
the
nightingales
Throbbed
each
to
either,
flame
and
song.
The
nightingales,
the
nightingales.
Upon
the
angle
of
its
shade
The
cypress
stood,
self-balanced
high;
Half
up,
half
down,
as
double-made,
Along
the
ground,
against
the
sky.
And
we,
too!
from
such
soul-height
went
Such
leaps
of
blood,
so
blindly
driven,
We
scarce
knew
if
our
nature
meant
Most
passionate
earth
or
intense
heaven.
The
nightingales,
the
nightingales.
We
paled
with
love,
we
shook
with
love,
We
kissed
so
close
we
could
not
vow;
Till
Giulio
whispered,
'Sweet,
above
God's
Ever
guarantees
this
Now.'
And
through
his
words
the
nightingales
Drove
straight
and
full
their
long
clear
call,
Like
arrows
through
heroic
mails,
And
love
was
awful
in
it
all.
The
nightingales,
the
nightingales.
O
cold
white
moonlight
of
the
north,
Refresh
these
pulses,
quench
this
hell!
O
coverture
of
death
drawn
forth
Across
this
garden-chamber...
well!
But
what
have
nightingales
to
do
In
gloomy
England,
called
the
free.
(Yes,
free
to
die
in!…)
when
we
two
Are
sundered,
singing
still
to
me?
And
still
they
sing,
the
nightingales.
I
think
I
hear
him,
how
he
cried
'My
own
soul's
life'
between
their
notes.
Each
man
has
but
one
soul
supplied,
And
that's
immortal.
Though
his
throat's
On
fire
with
passion
now,
to
her
He
can't
say
what
to
me
he
said!
And
yet
he
moves
her,
they
aver.
The
nightingales
sing
through
my
head.
The
nightingales,
the
nightingales.
He
says
to
her
what
moves
her
most.
He
would
not
name
his
soul
within
Her
hearing,—rather
pays
her
cost
With
praises
to
her
lips
and
chin.
Man
has
but
one
soul,
'tis
ordained,
And
each
soul
but
one
love,
I
add;
Yet
souls
are
damned
and
love's
profaned.
These
nightingales
will
sing
me
mad!
The
nightingales,
the
nightingales.
I
marvel
how
the
birds
can
sing.
There's
little
difference,
in
their
view,
Betwixt
our
Tuscan
trees
that
spring
As
vital
flames
into
the
blue,
And
dull
round
blots
of
foliage
meant
Like
saturated
sponges
here
To
suck
the
fogs
up.
As
content
Is
he
too
in
this
land,
'tis
clear.
And
still
they
sing,
the
nightingales.
My
native
Florence!
dear,
forgone!
I
see
across
the
Alpine
ridge
How
the
last
feast-day
of
Saint
John
Shot
rockets
from
Carraia
bridge.
The
luminous
city,
tall
with
fire,
Trod
deep
down
in
that
river
of
ours,
While
many
a
boat
with
lamp
and
choir
Skimmed
birdlike
over
glittering
towers.
I
will
not
hear
these
nightingales.
I
seem
to
float,
we
seem
to
float
Down
Arno's
stream
in
festive
guise;
A
boat
strikes
flame
into
our
boat,
And
up
that
lady
seems
to
rise
As
then
she
rose.
The
shock
had
flashed
A
vision
on
us!
What
a
head,
What
leaping
eyeballs!—beauty
dashed
To
splendour
by
a
sudden
dread.
And
still
they
sing,
the
nightingales.
Too
bold
to
sin,
too
weak
to
die;
Such
women
are
so.
As
for
me,
I
would
we
had
drowned
there,
he
and
I,
That
moment,
loving
perfectly.
He
had
not
caught
her
with
her
loosed
Gold
ringlets…
rarer
in
the
south…
Nor
heard
the
'Grazie
tanto'
bruised
To
sweetness
by
her
English
mouth.
And
still
they
sing,
the
nightingales.
She
had
not
reached
him
at
my
heart
With
her
fine
tongue,
as
snakes
indeed
Kill
flies;
nor
had
I,
for
my
part,
Yearned
after,
in
my
desperate
need,
And
followed
him
as
he
did
her
To
coasts
left
bitter
by
the
tide,
Whose
very
nightingales,
elsewhere
Delighting,
torture
and
deride!
For
still
they
sing,
the
nightingales.
A
worthless
woman!
mere
cold
clay
As
all
false
things
are!
but
so
fair,
She
takes
the
breath
of
men
away
Who
gaze
upon
her
unaware.
I
would
not
play
her
larcenous
tricks
To
have
her
looks!
She
lied
and
stole,
And
spat
into
my
love's
pure
pyx
The
rank
saliva
of
her
soul.
And
still
they
sing,
the
nightingales.
I
would
not
for
her
white
and
pink,
Though
such
he
likes—her
grace
of
limb,
Though
such
he
has
praised—nor
yet,
I
think,
For
life
itself,
though
spent
with
him,
Commit
such
sacrilege,
affront
God's
nature
which
is
love,
intrude
'Twixt
two
affianced
souls,
and
hunt
Like
spiders,
in
the
altar's
wood.
I
cannot
bear
these
nightingales.
If
she
chose
sin,
some
gentler
guise
She
might
have
sinned
in,
so
it
seems:
She
might
have
pricked
out
both
my
eyes,
And
I
still
seen
him
in
my
dreams!
-
Or
drugged
me
in
my
soup
or
wine,
Nor
left
me
angry
afterward:
To
die
here
with
his
hand
in
mine
His
breath
upon
me,
were
not
hard.
(Our
Lady
hush
these
nightingales!)
But
set
a
springe
for
him,
'mio
ben',
My
only
good,
my
first
last
love!—
Though
Christ
knows
well
what
sin
is,
when
He
sees
some
things
done
they
must
move
Himself
to
wonder.
Let
her
pass.
I
think
of
her
by
night
and
day.
Must
I
too
join
her…
out,
alas!…
With
Giulio,
in
each
word
I
say!
And
evermore
the
nightingales!
Giulio,
my
Giulio!—sing
they
so,
And
you
be
silent?
Do
I
speak,
And
you
not
hear?
An
arm
you
throw
Round
some
one,
and
I
feel
so
weak?
-
Oh,
owl-like
birds!
They
sing
for
spite,
They
sing
for
hate,
they
sing
for
doom!
They'll
sing
through
death
who
sing
through
night,
They'll
sing
and
stun
me
in
the
tomb—
The
nightingales,
the
nightingales!
