The Nightingale

A Wren, cutshort, gives a call, A Nightingale brings forth a sound, The evening lights dissolve as day Into the sky, and thus we play.

Wandering leaf and wandering thrush, The music twilit, set on hushed, And how much joy from that cold dust Awaits us here, as filled as a trust.

Oh Nature! Live, a song anew, Her flowers dance in skies of blue, And in this tranquil, wild behavior, Her very spirit still is favor.

• Samuel Taylor Coleridge