Beside the silent mill,

I'll wait for you, in the falling dew,

And hear the whip-poor-will.

“Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”

Sad and shrill,—“whippoorwill!”

  But if you still remember In that fair land of light, The pains and fears that touch us Along this edge of night, I think all earthly grieving, And all our mortal ill, To you must seem like a sad boy's dream. Who hears the whip-poor-will. “Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!” A passing thrill,—“whippoorwill!”

But if you still remember

In that fair land of light,

The pains and fears that touch us

Along this edge of night,

I think all earthly grieving,

And all our mortal ill,

To you must seem like a sad boy's dream.

Who hears the whip-poor-will.

“Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!”

A passing thrill,—“whippoorwill!”

1894.

 THE LILY OF YORROW

 Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; Blue is its cup as the sky, and with mystical odour o'erflowing; Faintly it falls through the shadowy glades when the south wind is blowing.

Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing;

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