The Song Of The Nightingale...

A wing, does she miss,
Round her body frail,  
And await that kiss,
As love does prevail?
From whatever it is,
That she does ail, 
Her ode to the spring,
A solo, she does sing,
Humbling every tweet,
From her hidden seat,
Amid the vibrant green,
Evading many eyes keen...

What is it, I must ask,
The motif of her tune?
In bliss, does she bask,
Or, forlorn's her croon?
Does she feel incomplete,
And so, lustily wail?
Is her solitude sweet,
Us, as she does regale?