The Wood Thrush and the Whip-poor-will 



BY GARRETT NEWKIRK 



When the faintest flush of morning 

 Overtints the distant hill, 

 // you waken, 

 If you 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! 



