Over the hearth with my 'minishing eyes I muse; until after the last coal dies. Every tunnel of the mouse, every channel of the cricket, I have smelt, I have felt the secret shifting of the mouldered rafter, and heard every bird in the thicket. I see you Nightingale up in the tree! I, born of a race of strange things, of deserts, great temples, great kings, in the hot sands where the nightingale never sings!
Ford Maddox Ford