Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/The Whip-poor-will
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL
The soft, deep gloom of night on vale and hillHalf hid the glories of the summer skies,And pearly tears, the dewdrops of the eyes,Obscured the dusky forms that lingered still.And while I watched, a cry pathetic, shrill,As 'twere the voice of some forgotten wrong,With three sad notes the burden of the songFilled all the night with strains of "Whip-poor-will!"A simple song beside the lark's mad flight,A worthless song of wild, rude minstrelsy, But those three notes revealed anew to meLife's mystery, its breadth, its depth. its height—And yet, I trow he heard the lark that dayAnd knew he sang a rude, uncultured lay.