A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.
|sheet music for Lamb's Nightingale Rag - which is attractive but bears little resemblance to a nightingale's warbling|
|Edmund Dulac's 1911 illustration for Anderson's tale The Nightingale (1843)|
Until you have heard the bird, in the quiet of the evening, singing his heart out from somewhere in the undergrowth, (yes, another bird which nests close to the ground) you perhaps cannot appreciate the beauty of that lone, melodious, sometimes plaintive sometimes playful birdsong.
|nightingales also sing by day but are drowned out by the competition|
|"I know 'cos I was there..." It is possible: nightingales can be urban dwellers. But when the town comes to them it can be fatal. See this recent article from The Guardian.|