The Nightingale

“No outward changes of condition in life can keep the nightingale of its eternal meaning from singing in all sorts of different men’s hearts.”                                                                                           William James

Since the time when time began, in the furrowed brow of man –
Squinting at the warring sun, the beating of our living drum,
Woke the warbling song of bird, the nightingale at last was heard.

Deep within the treasured chest, the frequent song from fragile nest –
A tired song and yet of joy, that knows of sorrow as a ploy
To turn the eye past what is seen; behold the song, of bird serene.

Listen, learn, and then adore the intonation there implored –
What matchless fire born of bird, as stunning as the spoken word.
Deep olive eggs in nest are lain where promise of a song remain.