Poetry is a rich, full-blooded whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbers the leaf, the duet of two nightingales, the sweet pea, that has run wild, Creation's tears in shoulder blades.
There's a long, long trail a-winding Into the land of my dreams, Where the nightingales are singing And a white moon beams; There's a long, long night of waiting Until my dreams all come true, Till the day when I'll be going down that Long, long trail with you.
The cypress stood up like a church That night we felt our love would hold, And saintly moonlight seemed to search And wash the whole world clean as gold; The olives crystallized the vales' Broad slopes until the hills grew strong: The fireflies and the nightingales Throbbed each to either, flame and song. The nightingales, the nightingales.
For as nightingales do upon glow-worms feed, So poets live upon the living light.philip james bailey
The nightingales among the sheltering boughs Of populous many-nested trees Shall teach me how to woo thee, and shall tell me By what resistless charms or incantations They won their mates.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Wilt thou have music? Hark! Apollo plays and twenty caged nightingales do sing.william shakespeare
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