Thou mournful bird, when shadows fell
At yester-eve on hill and dell,
I heard thee of thy sorrows tell;
And, as the dews distil,
Again, amid this twilight gray,
I hear thee pour thy solemn lay,
With only one sad thing to say,
Still crying, "Whip-poor-will."
O who has grieved thee, gentle bird,
That now thy vesper note is heard
And with thy melting, triple word
Thus dropping from thy bill?
How could they rudely whip at thee,
To scare thee from thy native tree,
And send thee moaning back to me
Repeating, "Whip-poor-will?"
And wherefore did they whip thee so,
To give thy voice this sound of wo,
Which comes so plaintively to show
That they have used thee ill?
Didst thou go through the woods alone,
Where brambly snares had thickly grown
When thou wast taught thy piteous tone
And story, "Whip-poor-will?"
There have they made thee all the day
In silence hide thyself away,
To lose the light, the flash, the play
Of sun, and fount, and rill?
And didst thou now steal out, afraid
Of midnight in the coppice shade,
That here thy tender plaint is made
Again, sad Whip-poor-will?
The trembling stars and lunar gleam,
That fitful in the thicket beam,
Perhaps would make poor Willie dream
His foes were round him still.
And in the copse-wood, dark and deep,
A waving flower, or leaflet's sweep
Might startle thee, in troubled sleep
To murmur, "Whip-poor-will!"
My bird, there 's mystery in thy strain—
A power I might resist in vain,
With mournful joy—with pleasing pain
My inmost soul to thrill.
'T is memory stirs to wet my eye
By waking shades of days gone by,
When first, a child, I heard the cry
So solemn, "Whip-poor-will."
I call thee bird, yet thou may'st be
A spirit! for I cannot see—
I ne'er could catch a glimpse of thee;
And undiscovered still
The vision form, that might appear,
Wert thou to sight revealed as clear,
As is thy presence to mine ear,
Mysterious Whip-poor-will.