And nought is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket’s chirp and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katy-did,
And the plaints of the mourning whip-poor-will,
Who mourns unseen, and ceaseless sings
Ever a note of wail and wo,
Till morning spreads her rosy wings,
And earth and sky in her glances glow.
’Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;