The Wood Thrush and the Whip-poor-will
BY GARRETT NEW KIRK
When the faintest flush of morning Overtints the distant hill, If you wafien, If J‘Dll listen, You may hear the whip—poor-will. Like an echo from the darkness,* Strangely wild across the glen, Sound the notes of his finale, And the woods are still again.
Soon upon the dreamy silence There will come a gentle trill, Like the whisper of an organ, Or the murmur Of a rill, And then a burst of music, Swelling forth upon the air, Till the melody of morning Seems to come from everywhere A thrush, as if awakened by The parting Voice of night, Gives forth a joyous welcome to The coming of the light.
In early evening twilight
Again the wood thrush sings, Like a voice of inspiration
With the melody of strings;
A song of joy ecstatic, And a Vesper hymn of praise, For the glory of the summer And the promise of the days‘
And when his song is ended,
And all the world grows still, ‘As if but just awakened,
Calls again the whip-poor-will.
(85)
