  When early shades of evening’s close The air with solemn darkness fill, Before the moonlight softly throws Its fairy mantle o’er the hill, A sad sound goes In plaintive thrill; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will. The Nightingale unto the rose Its tale of love may fondly trill; No love-tale this—’tis grief that flows With pain that never can be still, The sad sound goes In plaintive thrill; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will. Repeated oft, it never grows Familiar; but is sadder still, As though a spirit sought repose From some pursuing, endless ill, The sad sound goes In plaintive thrill; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will. |
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