The Whip-Poor-Will

We traveled thro’ the soundless night
And breathed the fragrant June,
Tumultuous fragrance, flooded bright
With an unwaning moon;
Till from the whitened field the wood
Rose dark along the hill, —
And there with sudden joy we stood
To hear thee, whip-poor-will!

O Bird, O Wonder! Long and high
Thy measured question calls!
I marvel, till thy perfect cry
Almost too perfect falls.

What art thou singing, voice divine,
Heart of the poignant night ?
What utter loveliness is thine,
Of suffering or delight ?
Delight too lovely, all but pain,
Would thy frail spirit pour ?
Would sorrow, in thy perfect strain,
Be joy forevermore ?

Thou hadst no answer but thy song
Clear as the soft June light,
Sweet as the fragrant earth, and long
As that immortal night.