Classic Poem

The Western sky blazed through the trees,
And in the East the dove-light shone;
Low fields of clover to the breeze
Gave out a fragrant monotone;
While sharp-voiced, whirring things beyond
Sent a faint treble through the air,
And discords of the hidden pond
Pulsed like an anthem, deep and rare.
Yet all the twilight range seemed still,
The tumult was so subtle-sweet;
When forth it burst, — clear, slow, complete,
The evening call of
" Whip-poor-will! "

The yarrow, crowding by the hedge,
Stirred not its specked, uncertain white;
The locust on the upland's edge
Stood tranced against the blaze of light;
For now the throbbing air was mute,
Since that wild note had pierced it through, —
That call so clear, so resolute,
So tender, dommant and true.
When suddenly, across the hill, —
Long, low and sweet, with dreamy fall,
Yet true and mellow, call for call,
Elate, and with a human thrill. —
Came the far answer:
" Whip-poor-will! "