The Nightingale as a Balladeer

There amid the branches, a small bird alights,
deep under the cover of a mild summer night.
When all other swains are abed upon the hour,
the nightingale enchants with beguiling, gentle power.
Though the crickets play swiftly, their mournful violins,
I listen only to his trills and soaring, playful whims;
For he serenades me shyly, like a lover behind a door,
weaving the spell of an eternal, clandestine amor.

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