Where does the Nightingale sing?
In a shaded copse or across the meadow;
The voice may be heard in lyric trill,
Accompanied by a chorus of calls diverse.
The Garden offers its invitation;
To be enraptured by pleasant forms;
To be embalmed with sensual fragrant;
To stop and for a moment reflect.
Time is fooled in that Elizabethan hour;
To pause and to refrain from haste;
To impress by the presence of that Regal source;
To infuse upon the will a sensual repose.
Reflection requires our attention!
Within the confines of such idyll thought
We may enjoy without hesitation
The glimpse of lineage once lost.
The Garden yields its deepest secrets;
Its bowers opened; to be by seeking souls, sought.
Pathways draw the inquisitive to journey,
To fulfil the quest and to assuage a thirst.
The Renaissance man and woman may be found,
Here, amongst the mentorship of a spectacular monarch,
Condensed and prompted to excel and relinquish
The fear and thought that might bind the will.
A place of vales and hills;
Bound by craggy coasts and caressed by variable winds,
Invites the wanderer with open arms
To step by all restraint and to be entertained.
Colour abounds and its conception must impress
In the simple species of flora one may inspect.
Yet, the detail captured in its presentation
Must upon the heart and the eye to its beauty attest.
Come then and wander where you will;
Discover the hidden treasures to be found;
Walk these ancient footpaths with intrepidation;
Take away the enrichment of a time that has passed.
Will George © July 6, 2004