  When frogs make merry the pools of May, And sweet, oh sweet, Through the twilight dim Is the vesper hymn Their myriad mellow pipes repeat As the rose-dusk dies away. Then hark, the night-hawk! (For now is the elfin hour.) With melting skies o’er him, All summer before him, His wild brown mate to adore him, By the spell of his power He summons the apples in flower. In the high pale heaven he flits and calls; Then swift, oh swift, On sounding wing That hums like a string, And the night-moths flicker, he falls. Then hark, the night-hawk! (For now is the elfin hour.) With melting skies o’er him, All summer before him, His wild brown mate to adore him, By the spell of his power He summons the apples in flower. |
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