  Evening mists hang o’er the rill, Twilight’s lucent dews are falling; From the copse on yonder hill The lone whippoorwill is calling; Soon as glow the Orient fires Of the new moon’s shining crescent With a throat that never tires Cries the bird with song incessant, “Whippoorwill!” Piping from its tuneful bill, “Whippoorwill!” Does that quick and plaintive cry Burst from bosom sorrow-laden, Like the star-told agony Of a wretched, love-lorn maiden? Or contemning, like a sage, Mirthful strains attuned to folly, Tames it thus the minstrel’s rage With a song so melancholy? “Whippoorwill!” Music soothes our sorrows still, “Whippoorwill!” Hearts bereft of hope and light By the bolt of sorrow riven, ’Neath the friendly vail of night Tell their griefs to listening heaven; Like the lonely whippoorwill, Flying far from daylight’s din, To some thick and starless shade Like that which fills the soul within. “Whippoorwill!” Night befriends the mourner still “Whippoorwill!” Like a hermit in his cell, Where a holy vow has bound him, Long the night bird’s vesper bell Sad as love beside the tomb Of its earliest, deepest sorrow Wails the bird till twilight’s gloom Fades away in dawning morrow— “Whippoorwill!” And its cry is never still— “Whippoorwill!” |
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