On a lowly little cedar that o’erspread a running rill;
Still his cry of grief he uttered, and around me wildly fluttered,
Whilst unconsciously I muttered, filled with boundless wonder still;
“Wherefore dost thou so implore me, piteously implore me still?
Tell me, tell me, Whippoorwill!
Soon beneath him, as he hover’d, by the starlight I discovered
That his gentle mate was lying on the dead leaves, dead and still:—
“Then,” said I, “he did implore me, in my chamber flitting o’er me,
Flitting to and fro before me, to avert some fearful ill;—
With prophetic instinct surely, he entreated human skill