Knowing when to Sing

When last I saw a nightingale his eyes were pale, his face was white, and though he made a strangled wail he could not sing at all that night. I'd seen him through my clouded windows, gave him secret, slight respect. When he danced his hands would flow and weave the air to strange effect. When I asked him why he cried he turned a honeyed smile on me, and he carefully replied he wouldn't cry so openly. I told him there was some mistake, I knew that I had heard him sing, He asked if I had been awake as dreams are falsely promising Perhaps he never sang, he said; perhaps I simply wished he would. Perhaps I should go home to bed some quiet rest would do me good. Admitting that I didn't know I shrugged and shivered, wondering, nodded once and turned to go but vaguely thought I heard him sing.