Edward Burrough Brownlow
The 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 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 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.
The Sonnet
THE sonnet is a diamond flashing round
From every facet true rose-colored lights;
A gem of thought carved in poetic nights
To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned;
A miniature of soul wherein are found
Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights;
A drop of blood with which a lover writes
His heart’s sad epitaph in its own bound;
A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep
Rocked in its frenzied passion; the last note
Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark’s throat;
A cascade small flung in a canyon steep,
With crystal music. At this shrine of song
High priests of poesy have worshipped long.