Keats. John. Your evasive songster, trilling

upon the leafy branch its perch,

holy, haunting, timeless, thrilling,

guards the peace for which we search,

but rarely find,

bereft of a nightingale mind.

John, your nightingale-ish dreams

would soon find their rest,

there near Piazza di Spagna, it seems;

there you would release your last breath, distressed,

to join the joyful choir, the avian kind,

maestro-led with a nightingale mind.

Yet, those among us sanctified by the sweet birdsong

will fly among the billowy clouds, high over the groans

of the weary, the feverish, the fretful who long

for softer rhythms, tempos, and tones--

windswept toward a nightingale mind,

there to be sheltered from the daily grind.