As the nightingale went home in the morning and hung his golden harp on the peg, he said in a bitter tone — ’Let them be sure of this, I will not sing again.’
And his wife came up to him with chirpings and hoppings to soothe him: but nothing availed; it was clear to all that he was bitterly affronted.
Every night he went out and sang his loves to the rose; the night air throbbed and quivered to the sound.
His wife sat at home, and was contented if he was happy; moreover, she thought that, however his love raged, no harm could possibly come of it.
And now at her entreaty he told her of his sorrows, and how deeply he was wounded by what had passed.
‘I sang sweetly! I sang sweetly! the rose opened her leaves; it seemed to me that the moon rose earlier than her wont.
‘All things listened — all things near and far off listened, save only the youth and maiden who were close to me.
‘I sang sweetly! I sang sweetly! but they only turned and whispered to each other…’
—V. A. R., “An Artist’s Sorrows,” from the Kamschatskan, Poems, 1867