Nightingale Lane
A. Barnett
Down through the thicket, out of the hedges,
A ripple of music singeth a tune...
Like water that falls
From mossy ledges
With a soft low croon:
Soon
It will cease!
No, it falls but to rise -- but to rise -- but to rise!
It is over the thickets, it leaps in the trees,
It swims like a star in the purple-black skies!
Ah, once again,
With its rapture and pain,
The nightingale singeth under the moon!