The Nightingale

The nightingale’s song, it flows, a pool of blissful air in darkness, calling sweetly through the greens, inhalations of endless night, froth of silences bring imprints clear.

Martyrs of the dark—sowers, they bind the spring of sorrow in leavens long awoken, courting secret green, pale angels’ flight, shifting swells, a crescent love of stars.

• D H Lawrence