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...THE EXPANDED COMPOSITION by CLARENCE MAJOR THE DARKEST HOUR; OXFORD, 1917 by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH: A DREAM OF PONCE DE LEON by HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF DOCTOR DONNE, DEAN OF PAUL'S by THOMAS CAREW GO DOWN DEATH; A FUNERAL SERMON by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE CUMBERLAND [MARCH 8, 1862] by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW |