A Nightingale sits, Perches on a frost-dusted windowsill Opening its wings. In doing so, sprinkling the world below With soft powder.
A year wasted, Waiting for such a Nightingale to arrive. Luckily still, friend, The frost-bed welcomes you in April For without it
You are nothing Less than a common thrush or Perhaps a robin. Yet, here a Nightingale sits, Perches on frost.
Open your mouth, Sweet Nightingale, and fill the air With all you have.