Harold Monro places us on a still lawn at night, where even the cypress seems to listen and the moon stares at the pond. Into that silence a nightingale sings, and the speaker becomes completely absorbed in its changing music. The song seems almost visible—falling through the air, darting in white arrows across the ground.
For the speaker, the bird’s voice blurs the line between waking and dreaming. His thoughts become flowers and the nightingale a bee moving through them. As he listens, the song keeps shifting: it is hard and bright like marble, soft as mist, hot as fire, then cold as ice, until it finally breaks at dawn. The mood is hushed and hypnotic, full of wonder and a pleasant disorientation, as if the whole night is held inside one unbroken song.