English poem
_The Lover'S Appeal._
by Arthur Weir (1864–1902)
Tell me when you'll wed me? Sweetest, name the day: Hope has well nigh fled me, Joy has slipped away. Dearest, why this strange delay? Must I sigh till we are gray? With a smile, "Wait awhile, We are young," you say.
Do you know the reason Why the nightingale Through the drear night season Pipes her tuneful tale? She was, once, like you, a maid, Who her wedding day delayed, And her swain, All in vain, For her favor prayed.
She had been a maiden Fair to look upon, Sweet as breezes laden With the scent of dawn. But her lover prayed that she Rest not till eternity. Heaven heard, And this bird, She was doomed to be.
Can you read the moral, Of this mournful tale? Sweetheart, if we quarrel, To a nightingale I will change you, though I weep, You shall sing and never sleep. With the owl You shall prowl Where the shades lie deep.
Tell me when you'll marry; Darling, name the day: Do not longer tarry, Life slips fast away. Do not, like the nightingale, Live your harshness to bewail. At your feet I entreat-- Let my love prevail.
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