To A. D.

William Ernest Henley

The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark’s is a clarion-call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.

For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.

Next 10 Poems

• William Ernest Henley : To A. J. H.
• William Ernest Henley : To D. H.
• William Ernest Henley : To F. W.
• William Ernest Henley : To J. A. C.
• William Ernest Henley : To James Mcneill Whistler
• William Ernest Henley : To K. De M.
• William Ernest Henley : To Me At My Fifth-floor Window
• William Ernest Henley : To My Mother
• William Ernest Henley : To My Mother Ii
• William Ernest Henley : To My Mother Iii

Previous 10 Poems

• William Ernest Henley : To A. C.
• William Ernest Henley : There's A Regret
• William Ernest Henley : There Is A Wheel Inside My Head
• William Ernest Henley : The West A Glimmering Lake Of Light
• William Ernest Henley : The Ways Are Green With The Gladdening Sheen
• William Ernest Henley : The Wan Sun Westers, Faint And Slow
• William Ernest Henley : The Surges Gushed And Sounded
• William Ernest Henley : The Spring, My Dear
• William Ernest Henley : The Song Of The Sword
• William Ernest Henley : The Skies Are Strown With Stars