The Nightingale

Where rustling wood and tangled vine And fragrant flower meet, I often hear, like love’s own sign, The nightingale’s sweet feet.

But in my heart a bitter ache, No song can ever heal; Yet still I hear the nightingale break, In music, from the field.

And as the twilight grasps the sky, I listen long and deep; For then, when shadows softly lie, The nightingale sings sweet.

• John Shaw Neilson