2:2b / Ruth’s goal, however, is not just to find favor in the eyes of someone with enough economic wherewithal to save her life. Keats inimitably expresses the greater depth of her pain in his Ode to a Nightingale: Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick