Still callest thou—thou Whip-poor-will!
When dipped the moon behind the hill
I heard thee, and I hear thee still.
But mingled with thy plaintive cry
A wilder sound comes ebbing by,
Out of the pine-woods, solemnly.
It is the blinking owls that sit
Up in the trees, and wait a-bit
Ere yet along the shores they flit.
And hark, again! It comes anew—