From yonder wooded hill I hear the whip-poor-will, Whose mate or wandering echo answers him Athwart the lowlands dim. He calls not through the day; But when the shadows gray Across the sunset draw their lengthening veil, He tells his twilight tale. What unforgotten wrong Haunts the ill-omened song? What scourge of fate has left its loathed mark Upon the cringing dark? "Whip! Whip-poor-will!" O sobbing voice, be still! Tell not again, O melancholy bird, The legend thou hast heard! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SECOND BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 12 by THOMAS CAMPION A NOCTURNAL UPON ST. LUCY'S DAY, BEING THE SHORTEST DAY by JOHN DONNE DOUGLASS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THREE FRIENDS OF MINE: 5; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW HESPERUS THE BRINGER by SAPPHO |