Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn: <br />It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond <br />Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond <br />Stares. And you sing, you sing. <br /> <br />That star-enchanted song falls through the air <br />From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound, <br />Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground; <br />And all the night you sing. <br /> <br />My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee <br />As all night long I listen, and my brain <br />Receives your song, then loses it again <br />In moonlight on the lawn. <br /> <br />Now is your voice a marble high and white, <br />Then like a mist on fields of paradise, <br />Now is a raging fire, then is like ice, <br />Then breaks, and it is dawn.<br /><br />Harold Monro<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-nightingale-near-the-house/
