roses pale to the ghost of their morning 

 hue. Old-man's-beard wears the silver of 

 age, and vagrant, blossomy briers wave at 

 you wands of pearl. 



Hearken the deep night's voices. The 

 swamp sends out a rumble of distant croak- 

 ing, the wood a shrilling of tree-toads from 

 all its thousand boughs. There is crying of 

 whippoorwills on every hand swish of their 

 wings, too, dark and heavy, as in wheeling 

 flight they circle from out the wood. "Whip- 

 poor-will! Whip-poor-will!" the cry of them, 

 goes pealing through this dim, drowsing 

 world. There is heart-break in it, longing, 

 passion, a wild call for justice, a fine note 

 of despair. It chills you, thrills you, spite 

 the toad's merry undertone, the frog's deep 

 double-bass. It is a singing of death and 

 silence. What though the singer be a clown 

 on wings, who shall listen without tremor 

 of soul, here in the midnight fields, his 

 weird, low, wailing note ? 



The climbing moon lies white, straight 

 overhead. There is no more darkness save 

 underneath the trees. What tense, black 

 silhouettes of all their leafy mass lie, sharp 

 and vivid, along the wet, cool grass. Mid- 

 night has struck, and still the south wind 

 sleeps. And still the lulling flower-breath 



