The Whip-Poor-Will

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 loathèd 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!