  THE WHIP-POOR-WILLWHEN 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. THE sonnet is a diamond flashing round From every facet true rose-colored lights; A gem of thought carved in poetic nights To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned; A miniature of soul wherein are found Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights; A drop of blood with which a lover writes His heart's sad epitaph in its own bound; A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep Rocked in its frenzied passion; the last note Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark's throat; A cascade small flung in a canyon steep, With crystal music. At this shrine of song High priests of poesy have worshipped long. |
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