EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW
WHEN early shades of evening's closeThe air with solemn darkness fill,Before the moonlight softly throwsIts fairy mantle o'er the hill,A sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.The Nightingale unto the roseIts tale of love may fondly trill;No love-tale this—'tis grief that flowsWith pain that never can be still.The sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.Repeated oft, it never growsFamiliar, but is sadder still,As though a spirit sought reposeFrom some pursuing, endless ill.The sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.
WHEN early shades of evening's closeThe air with solemn darkness fill,Before the moonlight softly throwsIts fairy mantle o'er the hill,A sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.The Nightingale unto the roseIts tale of love may fondly trill;No love-tale this—'tis grief that flowsWith pain that never can be still.The sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.Repeated oft, it never growsFamiliar, but is sadder still,As though a spirit sought reposeFrom some pursuing, endless ill.The sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.
WHEN early shades of evening's closeThe air with solemn darkness fill,Before the moonlight softly throwsIts fairy mantle o'er the hill,A sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.
WHEN early shades of evening's close
The air with solemn darkness fill,
Before the moonlight softly throws
Its fairy mantle o'er the hill,
A sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.
The Nightingale unto the roseIts tale of love may fondly trill;No love-tale this—'tis grief that flowsWith pain that never can be still.The sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.
The Nightingale unto the rose
Its tale of love may fondly trill;
No love-tale this—'tis grief that flows
With pain that never can be still.
The sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.
Repeated oft, it never growsFamiliar, but is sadder still,As though a spirit sought reposeFrom some pursuing, endless ill.The sad sound goesIn plaintive thrill;Who hears it knowsThe Whip-poor-will.
Repeated oft, it never grows
Familiar, but is sadder still,
As though a spirit sought repose
From some pursuing, endless ill.
The sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.