Classic Poem

The shades of eve are gathering slowly round,
And silence hangs o'er meadow, grove, and hill,
Save one lone voice, that, with continuous sound,
Calls thro' the deep'ning twilight — Whippoorwill .

Faintly is heard the whispering mountain breeze;
Faintly the rushing brook that turn'd the mill:
Hush'd is the song of birds — the hum of bees; —
The hour is all thine own, sad Whippoorwill!

No more the woodman's axe is heard to fall:
No more the ploughman sings with rustic skill.
As if earth's echoes woke no other call,
Again, and yet again, comes Whippoorwill!

Alas! enough; before, my heart was sad;
Sweet bird! thou makest it sadder, sadder still.
Enough of mourning has my spirit had;
I would not hear thee mourn, poor Whippoorwill .

Thoughts of my distant home upon me press,
And thronging doubts, and fears of coming ill;
My lone heart feels a deeper loneliness,
Touch'd with that plaintive burthen — Whippoorwill .

Sing to the village lass, whose happy home
Lies in yon quiet vale, behind the hill;
But, doom'd far, far from all I love to roam,
Sing not to me, oh gentle Whippoorwill .

Lov'd ones! my children! Ah, they cannot hear
My voice that calls to them! An answer shrill,
A shrill, unconscious answer rises near,
Repeating, still repeating, Whippoorwill!

Another name my lips would breathe; — but then
Such tender memories all my bosom fill,
Back to my sorrowing breast it sinks again!
Hush, or thou'lt break my heart, sad Whippoorwill .