Viktor Zabila - To the nightingale

Twitter not, nightingale, close to my casement;
Twitter not, tiny one, early at dawn!
For, when thou trillest in treble beguilement,
Pangs in my breast from thy music are drawn.

When thou art piping, first shrilly, then gently,
Grief chills my soul and my spirit grows faint;
Even thy echo still sounds on intently,
Whether at dusk or at dawn comes thy plaint.

Lovely thy song is, thou singest sublimely;
Thou hast a mate and a nest for thy joy;
Poor am I, mateless and homeless, untimely
Constant misfortunes my gladness destroy.

Weary at sunrise, I weep at its setting;
She whom I loved has been lost to my sight.
News of my darling no longer I’m getting,
Tears are my portion by day and by night.

Twitter not, nightingale, gaily at morning!
Twitter not, tiny one, glad in the gloom!
Seek out blest souls, to whom grief has no warning;
Birdsong to them has no accent of doom.

Torn is my soul by thy exquisite fluting;
Throbs in my heart set me gasping for breath.
Owls were more welcome, not singing but hooting—
Here let them hoot and foretell of my death!