Nightingale

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