Nightingale, thou art not forlorn,
Thy sacrifice not made in vain -
That hung thy life upon a thorn,
And tempered true love with its stain.

Purity, thou art not slighted
By the spurn of a thankless sway.
Thy charity stands unblighted,
Though the whole world withers away.

Nightingale, thy sweet notes impart
The tenets of a godly role.
I hold thy bloom against my heart,
And sing thy song within my soul.

~ Daniel F Mitchell

Most divine eye of night,
Keeper of secrets old,
Here beneath thy keen sight,
What tales must have been told!
Thou scorner of the morn,
At high nocturnal noon,
Here witness on the vine
All creatures ever born
To rise and swiftly swoon!
Bestow thy silver wine!

My cup of tea is steeped in deepest lore,
From olden times in lost, exotic lands -
The stuff of ardent scenes since days of yore.
I hold a cup of legend in my hands.
Reposed upon my thoughts as on a throne,
Beneath a tropic jungle’s misted light,
In visions of fragrant haze, I am shown
Incense scent from some ancient temple height.
Sweet wisps of Gypsy secrets at my lips,
I recollect the wealth of friendships past,
Dispelled to naught, like vaporizing ships,
‘Cross seas of mystery and romance vast.
  With kindred souls I sip, and muse, and dream,
  And sail away on wafts of sultry steam.
 
~ Daniel F Mitchell

Standing On a Tree Stump  

Standing on a tree stump,
With my arms up in the air,
I feel my lifeblood pump,
As if my limbs were everywhere.
Standing like a mighty tree,
With a windy voice I cry.
I feel my roots beneath me,
And my soul up in the sky.

~ Daniel F Mitchell