Nightingale
She speaks to me
as the nightingale speaks—
in darkness sweetly singing—
in warbling tremulous tones
lets forth
her song serene and soaring—
a brightly luring flame
as I for her hath wrought—
from strange and distant shadows
her mesmeric siren chant
reveals my secret name.
She a dusky goddess
glimpsed
in a longing languishing dream—
draped in splendorous silver stars
aglow in ancient auroral light—
her voice resonant—vast and holy—
yet with softest falling grace
and downy as the dawn—
whispers from the starry vale
of embraces dim and tender.
I may see her glory
only in the dark—
her piercing eyes alight
with vivid violet flame—
She
illuminates my inward heart—
her ardent burning blood in mine.
She—Oracle of divinest truth—
for me lifts
Oblivion's dismal shroud—
so that my blinded eyes behold
her pale and shocking beauty
—once hidden and forever lost
beneath the doleful veil—
and reveals unto me
all the secrets of the night.
O Mistress of my magic art
Enchantress of my Orphic lyre—
with your music strange and sighing
rippling from the nimbus—
come silent on thy sweet and sacred feet
across Olympus' fields—
and—most gracious nymph—
cloak me in your dewy
Nebula of love.
O Muse ever radiant—
Queen of the vernal night—
teach me to sing as you do—
with fire, with glory, with light!
*
Steven Holland
April 10, 2014