Edward William Thomson (1849–1924)

From ‘The Canadian Rossignol’

NO, Rossignol, sing not that strain,

Triumphant ’spite of all the pain,—

She cannot hear you, Rossignol,

She does not pause and flush, your thrall.

She does not raise that slender hand

And, poised, lips parted, understand

What you are telling of the years,

Her brown eyes soft with happy tears,

She does not hear a note of all.

Ah, Rossignol, ah, Rossignol!

But skies are blue, and flowers bloom,

And roses breathe the old perfume,

And here the murmuring of the trees

In all of lovelier mysteries—

And may be now she hears the song

Pouring the summer hills along,

Listens with joy that still to me

Remain the summer time and thee.