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| THE NIGHTINGALES were singing | |
| At Poissy on the Seine, | |
| As I leant above the river, | |
| Flooded high with summer rain. | |
| Dear is that royal river; | 5 |
| With ceaseless, noiseless flow, | |
| Past the gray towers of Paris | |
| From the woods of Fontainebleau! | |
| |
| The nightingales were singing | |
| In the rosy sunset air; | 10 |
| The silver chimes were ringing, | |
| “Christians, come to prayer!” | |
| And I thought the invitation | |
| Uttered ever, eve and morn, | |
| Was the voice of good St. Louis | 15 |
| In the town where he was born! | |
| |
| As I leant above the river, | |
| Musing softly all alone, | |
| The bells and birds together | |
| Seemed blended into one; | 20 |
| The rapturous thrill of nature, | |
| So soulless, yet so fair, | |
| Borne up upon the wingéd chimes, | |
| “Christians, come to prayer!” | |
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| Fair is the Seine at Poissy, | 25 |
| With its islets crowned by trees, | |
| Fringed by spires of lofty poplars | |
| Trembling in the summer breeze. | |
| Fair is the antique city, | |
| And its church is white as snow; | 30 |
| Built and blessed by good St. Louis, | |
| Built and blessed so long ago! | |
| |
| Louis, being dead, yet liveth | |
| By the waters of the Seine; | |
| Where he trod, his kingdom blossomed; | 35 |
| Where he built, his stones remain; | |
| Where he knelt, his pious accents | |
| Linger softly on the air. | |
| Join, sweet birds, your invitation! | |
| “Christians, come to prayer!” | 40 |
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