Where sits that limpid singer
I can hear and seldom see
behind his screen of leaves
this glad morning in May?

He stuns the other birds
to silence with bold notes
that drop in wonder from his throat
in hedge and undergrowth.

Where is he? I can't find him
but I hear, I hear, I hear
the song of joy he weaves -
it clatters down the streets.

Men sit like him and sing
before their looms when morning
comes and from good thread spin
long-lasting linseed-cloth.

The weaver sings, his frame shudders,
the shuttle keeps the beat,
the loom drones and the spools
move drawling through the woof.

So he sits in sultry Summer
and stretches his proud thread
of many colours on
the weaver's frame of leaves.

What is he? man or beast, joy
or sweet delight, a vessel
of incense where angels' hands
invisible burn many scents.

What is he? A clockwork toy
of fine teeth, fierce strings and
and a dapper mouth all wrapped
in speech that sounds like gold.

He is… what I can't reach,
a spark of fire, a message
from roofs much higher
than the boldest roofs of men.

Listen! Slow and loud
and lovely, a life, a zest
that sounds as from the depths
of a thousand organ-mouths.

Now piping fine, now screaming
loud it dribbles from his throat
like waterbubbles rattling
down the roof's thatched coat.

And now his rhythm bounces
off each note - long necklaces
of pearls gone dancing off
their strings on marble sound.

A master of his voice
he knows to counterfeit
the lilt, the manner and
the sweep of each bird's speech.

An old man knows no envy:
let him take the prize of song,
bird or beauty, and steal
the poet's crown from me.

For who will understand
and treasure the riches
it holds, the marvel-tale
of the sovereign nightingale.