The Whippoorwill, by Madison Cawein


  Above lone woodland ways that led
  To dells the stealthy twilights tread
  The west was hot geranium red;
    And still, and still,
  Along old lanes the locusts sow
  With clustered pearls the Maytimes know,
  Deep in the crimson afterglow,
  We heard the homeward cattle low,
  And then the far-off, far-off woe
    Of "whippoorwill!" of "whippoorwill!"


  Beneath the idle beechen boughs
  We heard the far bells of the cows
  Come slowly jangling towards the house;
    And still, and still,
  Beyond the light that would not die
  Out of the scarlet-haunted sky;
  Beyond the evening-star's white eye
  Of glittering chalcedony,
  Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry
    Of "whippoorwill," of "whippoorwill."


  And in the city oft, when swims
  The pale moon o'er the smoke that dims
  Its disc, I dream of wildwood limbs;
    And still, and still,
  I seem to hear, where shadows grope
  Mid ferns and flowers that dewdrops rope,—
  Lost in faint deeps of heliotrope
  Above the clover-sweetened slope,—
  Retreat, despairing, past all hope,
    The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill.