Shapes of Clay

by Ambrose Bierce

NANINE

NANINE.

We heard a song-bird trilling--
'T was but a night ago.
Such rapture he was rilling
As only we could know.

This morning he is flinging
His music from the tree,
But something in the singing
Is not the same to me.

His inspiration fails him,
Or he has lost his skill.
Nanine, Nanine, what ails him
That he should sing so ill?

Nanine is not replying--
She hears no earthly song.
The sun and bird are lying
And the night is, O, so long!